


Blood of Kings

by thelightofmorning



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Ableism, Adultery, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Kidnapping, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Corpse Desecration, Crimes & Criminals, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Misogyny, Multi, Read the tags!, Religious Conflict, Sex Work, Slavery, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 40,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25459789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Setareh bint Sura-Char al-Dragonstar should have been an Empress. Or maybe even a queen. But the betrayal of her husband's minions led to her becoming a vampire in the court of Harkon. No matter; queen of the damned is a title that will suit her as well as any other...Lia didn't plan on becoming Jarl of the Rift when she changed her face and name. But there's no one else to lead the Hold into a brighter future, even if it seems shadowed by dark and dire prophecies...Be it a court of vampires or a court of Thanes, politics is much the same and the blood of kings will rise to the challenge - or be lost forever to something worse than death.There's references to implied CSA and rape/non-con as implied in Serana's backstory. Read the tags, people!
Relationships: Ronthil (Elder Scrolls)/Original Character(s), Serana - Relationship
Comments: 226
Kudos: 55





	1. A Royal Court

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, implied sexual activity, slavery, ableism, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child abuse and mentions of genocide, adultery, child sexual abuse, drug use, torture, child abandonment and child death. New AU, fleshing out Setareh (sometimes called Farrah), Rustem and Irkand’s Redguard mother and Callaina’s paternal grandmother.

“Well, aren’t you the neat one?” sneered one of the lesser courtiers, a Cyrod woman who flocked to Vingalmo like flies to steaming excrement. Salonia, if she recalled correctly.

Setareh dabbed at her mouth delicately with a nightshade-scented napkin, as any self-respecting Forebear of gentle birth would, and reminded herself that Salonia stood above her in this sorry excuse for a court. “I dislike wasting my food by guzzling it like a Nord at the mead barrel,” she answered, deliberately keeping her tone mild. “Are we not lords among vampires? I’ve ever felt it behoves me to act with some decorum and restraint.”

“Are you implying that we’re all ill-mannered?” Stalf, Orthjolf’s favoured minion, demanded flatly.

“In some cases, there’s no implication,” Setareh observed dryly, earning a chuckle from the two Dunmer seated at their table. Feran Sadri and Garan Marethi were likely allies, as Vingalmo looked upon them as lesser mer and Orthjolf sneered at them for being intellectually inclined. Both were seemingly content with their power and influence, preferring to be indispensable to whoever Harkon should favour at the moment, and Dunmer were ever a practical race compared to their golden-skinned cousins. Setareh was honest enough to admit some prejudice against Altmer for the horrors visited upon Hammerfell during the Great War – to herself, at least. Letting Vingalmo know she quite despised him would be a death sentence at the moment.

She handed her goblet to a thrall and studied this wretched parody of a court through hooded eyes. Before her betrayal at the Blades’ hands and the subsequent two decades in Balgeir the Bloody’s fortress of Bloodlet Throne, she’d never entertained the possibility of sympathising with the stratified Crowns. Nobles of the Forebears earned their place through blade, cunning and adaptability, not the storied lineages of an ancient past, and so she and Beroc and the others sneered at the na-Totambu. But, as she learned in Balgeir’s court and had confirmed in Harkon’s holding, longevity and wealth simply couldn’t buy some people class.

It had been a calculated risk to betray Balgeir and deliver his head to Harkon, earning her a sliver of regard from the ancient Jarl, but Setareh wasn’t minded to remain living in squalor at the arse-end of Falkreath. Though had she known about the conditions of Castle Volkihar, she might have settled for turning Bloodlet Throne into a suitable court. Or perhaps not. The woman who’d dragged her dying body along the Serpent’s Trail, determined to see Arius dead for his actions, could endure much for vengeance and power.

Pity the Medes had beaten her to crucifying the old bastard before she could. What he had made of Rustem and Irkand…

“Does something displease you, Setareh?” Harkon asked in his rich silky baritone.

“Only old memories,” she admitted to the Lord of the Volkihar. “Immortality doesn’t remove regret.”

“Well I know it,” Harkon agreed with a sigh. “You, too, were betrayed by a spouse and child?”

“Only a spouse. My sons believe me dead.” Her mouth turned downwards. “At least one of them would make certain of it, thanks to his devotion to Arkay.”

“I’m sorry. I think if I could find Serana, I could wean her from her mother’s poison…” The Nord stood up. “Join me in the chapel.”

Setareh rose to her feet, smoothed down her red and black robes, and followed Harkon into the back of the hall. Thralls, their expressions slackened from the magics used to destroy their wills, knelt on either side of an altar to Molag Bal. She pitied them, for Rargal Thrallmaster had the subtlety of a mace to the face, even by Nord standards.

_This was not a fate I asked for, but it is one I must endure,_ she said to herself for the hundredth time.

“You listen much yet say little… but your every word carries a bite,” Harkon mused after genuflecting to the altar, Setareh following suit. “I’m not certain I’m pleased you described some of my courtiers as ill-mannered.”

“Lord Harkon, before my turning, I was the granddaughter of a king, wife to a scion of hidden royal blood, and a noble in my own right,” Setareh said candidly. “While talent can make up for much and money provide a certain cachet, there are just some people who you can’t polish if Dibella herself spat on the rag. My comment was uncivil, I will concede, but I do not appreciate someone who slurps her meals like a dog drinking from a bowl sneering at me for showing a little class.”

Harkon gave a short sharp laugh. “True enough! But Salonia and Stalf serve their purposes. Even that wretched little Ronthil serves a useful function in this court. I allow a certain amount of competition because it keeps my court sharp. However, I won’t tolerate any undermining of its function when we are about to embark on the greatest enterprise vampirekind has ever undertaken. Am I understood?”

“Of course, Lord Harkon,” Setareh said smoothly. “If necessary, I will offer those two an apology.”

“You needn’t go that far,” Harkon said dryly. “They _do_ have less manners than Garmr and CuSith. Just keep your claws sheathed… for now. I have a mission for you, one that requires restraint and discretion.”

“Oh?” Setareh folded her hands together. “Does it involve that Isran trying to rebuild the Dawnguard?”

“No. I don’t think we need worry about him immediately. The man’s as abrasive as Orthjolf after a night on the blood-mead and he’s got the tact of Salonia, the discretion of Stalf and the charm of a week-dead mudcrab.” Harkon waved his hand dismissively. “I need you to find the Bloodstone Chalice. It has powers which will be… useful… in our endeavour. Find Redwater Spring in the Rift. Kill the thin-bloods who congregate under the traitor Venarus Vulpin. He’s gone mad or bad and needs to be eliminated. You killed one renegade. I would have you deal with another.”

She bowed elegantly, touching lips in the Forebear manner. “As you command, Lord Harkon.”

“Of course it is as I command,” he said dismissively. “Am I not destined to be High King of the vampires?”

_The only thing you’re destined for is worm food and a soul gem,_ Setareh thought grimly. There was only one person fit to rule in this court and it most certainly wasn’t this Nord brute who lacked the nobility to properly rule this castle.

But if immortality had granted Setareh one virtue, it was patience. She would demonstrate restraint, prudence, patience and discretion. As any worthy noble should.

…

“Was that a scream I heard?”

“Only the Stormsword discovering that there’s a new Jarl in the Rift,” joked Bersi Honey-Hand to Bolli.

“Sounded more like Maven,” Bolli observed dryly. “She really had her sights set on the Mist Throne.”

Lia clasped her hands together as the first Thane approached to make his oath of allegiance. When she’d decided to make this dank unlovely city her home several weeks ago, giving a skooma addict a healing potion to ease her cravings had been an act of compassion. When it led to investigating a storehouse on the docks, then purging a skooma and illegal betting ring, then Laila Law-Giver granting her the title of Thane when she’d bought Honeyside… She wasn’t sure if Mara, Zenithar or even the Madgoddess was behind the sudden whirlwind of circumstance and decision that put her on the Mist Throne.

“Both of them are surely spinning in their graves,” Bersi said with a laugh. “A toast to Jarl Lia!”

_I was supposed to change my name and face before going into quiet obscurity,_ Lia reflected in dismay. _Bloody hell, I should just leave and go somewhere else…_

But where? If she left the Rift, Harrald Law-Giver and Hemming Black-Briar would tear the Hold apart. There was enough grief in the world with the civil war and the return of the bloody dragons.

No, Lia was trapped, by her own sense of responsibility if nothing else. The tricky thing would be to make sure the Stormcloaks and the Legion never found out who she was.

She envied the Dragonborn. All they had to do was kill Alduin.

_I never asked for this. But if not me, then who?_


	2. Live to Serve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, slavery, imprisonment, corpse desecration and mentions of torture, child abuse and emotional abuse.

“The Bloodstone Chalice? I’m a little surprised you’ve been sent to refill it,” Garan Marethi mused after quaffing from his goblet of blood. “There’s two or three members of the court who’ve been to Redwater Spring before.”

“It is my understanding that Venarus Vulpin has displeased Lord Harkon and since I delivered Balgeir’s head…” The Redguard woman spread her hands in silent eloquence. “I am, after all, very good at executions.”

Ronthil kept his head bowed as he trudged through the library, arms laden with dusty tomes. His situation could be so much the worse, given he’d been a thrall accidentally turned by Hestla, but he was always keen to prove himself useful. If he should acquire some knowledge along the way…

Setareh might be the newest member of Harkon’s court but she’d been a vampire for at least four decades and a survivor of Redguard court politics before that. Compact and well-built, her eyes glittered amber in a face as smooth and red-brown as polished carnelian, onyx-black hair twisted into thick garnet-capped strands that hung to her waist. In the blood-soaked horror that was Harkon’s household, she maintained a certain dignity and refinement _some_ Vampire Lords would do well to mimic.

“Becoming known as Harkon’s executioner could be risky,” Garan observed. “Orthjolf in particular might feel threatened.”

“I turn my hand to whatever Lord Harkon requires of me,” Setareh responded smoothly. “I will no doubt find my niche.”

Garan rubbed his bearded chin. “Well, good luck. Venarus learned a few tricks from Sybille Stentor and even as a thin-blood, she’s a competent enough mage to avoid if possible.”

“Sybille Stentor?” Setareh’s voice was politely curious.

“The court wizard of Solitude,” Ronthil piped up before he could help himself. “She was appointed in the early days of High King Istlod, served under High King Torygg, and now is the arcane adviser to Jarl Elisif the Fair. It’s… not exactly a secret she’s older than she looks and it’s rumoured she feeds on the prisoners in Castle Dour’s prison.”

“Don’t you have a corner to scurry to?” Garan asked with raised eyebrows.

“I was collecting some alchemy treatises for Feran when I overheard the question,” Ronthil said quickly. “I’m sorry for interrupting the conversation.”

“Don’t be. Lord Harkon himself said that we all serve a function in his court,” Setareh said warmly. “I appreciate your help, Ronthil. Thank you. Sybille Stentor has the power to be a great ally… or a great enemy. Either way, knowledge of her existence is useful to me.”

Garan sighed somewhat dramatically. “Vingalmo offered her a place at our court and she laughed in his face because she sleeps on silken sheets instead of in a coffin like a decent vampire should.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a taste for luxury,” Setareh noted, “And you must admit for a vampire hiding in plain sight, silken sheets are more practical than a coffin.”

_I don’t even have a coffin,_ Ronthil thought glumly.

“It’s the propriety of the matter,” Garan said primly.

“I shall make certain to be careful around this Sybille,” Setareh murmured. “Thank you, Garan.”

“No problem.” The Dunmer smiled wryly. “There’s few enough of us aristocrats around here and even less of us who avoid the petty political ploys of Orthjolf and Vingalmo.”

“I’ve seen more subtle manoeuvrings among horker bulls trying to attract cows during mating season,” Setareh agreed wryly. “If you’ll excuse me, I better collect some supplies for the journey to the Rift.”

Garan nodded to Ronthil. “The little rodent there keeps track of such things. Speak to Feran if you need actual potions, of course.”

Something flashed in Setareh’s eyes. “Of course. Fare you well, Garan.”

Ronthil followed her out of the library. “If you need weapons, Hestla’s the one to talk to, but I can provide a few soul gems and magical tomes.”

Setareh patted the curved dagger at her waist. “I could use a couple filled soul gems to replenish my dagger’s enchantments. Hestla’s weapons are ugly Nord tools suitable for hacking and slashing.”

“Orthjolf and Fura don’t seem to mind,” Ronthil observed.

“They’re Nords,” Setareh said dryly.

She traded two magical tomes, both spells Ronthil didn’t know, for a filled common soul gem. “Thank you,” she said with a smile.

“Oh, it was my pleasure!” Ronthil told her enthusiastically. “I live to serve, after all!”

“There are times to bend like the willow before the storm’s blast and other times to stand as the oak rooted into Yff’re’s bones,” she said softly, quoting an ancient Bosmer proverb he’d never expected to hear from a Redguard. “The wisdom lies in knowing when.”

“I was a thrall who got accidentally turned,” Ronthil confessed with a flush. “No one lets me forget.”

“If you lie down like a rug, others will walk on you,” Setareh pointed out. “That is what we Forebears say.”

She gave him a smile. “Use my coffin while I am gone. It is not right a Vampire Lord is made to sleep behind a bookcase like a servant.”

As she walked away, Ronthil couldn’t help but smile broadly. Setareh had his loyalty, such as it was worth.

Then he glanced over at Stalf and Salonia, who were exchanging sneering insults about each other and the Redguard lady. There were cracks in the court even in its lowest ranks. He could make use of them for the lady’s sake.

“Oh, there you are!” he said brightly, scurrying over to them. “Did you hear that Lord Harkon has sent Setareh to fill the Bloodstone Chalice _and_ execute Venarus because she’s so good at executions? No wonder Orthjolf and Vingalmo look like they’ve gotten a bowl of soured blood. Err, I probably shouldn’t have said that last bit. Please don’t tell them. I’m shocked, absolutely shocked, that neither of you were considered for the honour.”

“Go away, worm!” Stalf sneered. “If that Redguard cow thinks she’s going to have the honour-“

“Harkon’s momentarily impressed with her because she delivered Balgeir’s head,” Salonia said coolly. “Her arrogance will see her overstep her place and be executed.”

“Not if she refills that damned chalice,” Stalf muttered. “What’s next, she’s sent with Lokil to lead the attack on the Hall of the Vigilant?”

“Molag’s balls, you’re joking!” Salonia said in disbelief.

“I wish I were,” said Stalf flatly.

“Have you two considered an alliance of convenience?” Ronthil suggested quietly. “I mean, if Setareh should be overmatched by Venarus, whoever brings the Chalice back will be Lokil’s second. Or so I think.”

“What do you know about these things, worm?” Stalf sneered.

“I hear everything,” Ronthil told him, trying not to quail under that hard gaze. “If Setareh dies, I can get a damned coffin.”

“That’s the sum of your ambition?” Salonia laughed.

“I’m happy to be of service,” Ronthil murmured. “ _Some_ of us aren’t too big for our britches.”

Stalf slapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll let Orthjolf know you were useful.”

“Ha! Vingalmo will reward me for delivering the chalice,” Salonia said sweetly.

“Try not to kill each other before you get the chalice,” Ronthil said dryly. “It defeats the purpose of an alliance of convenience.”

If they should kill each other before reaching Redwater Spring or weaken each other to be finished off by Setareh, it suited Ronthil’s purposes. With a few words, the lady had transformed his worth from despised ex-thrall to useful ally.

He’d be happy to rise through the court on her heels. He wouldn’t be greedy, oh no. Serving a true lady of the court was good enough for him.


	3. Yokudan In You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, torture and child abuse. References to Arthmoor’s Shor’s Stone mod. Lia is a version of Lia Storm-Shadow, the version that does a runner from Helgen with the Legion tax chest and changes her name and face.

Even a Vampire Lord could only fly for so long and so Setareh came to earth just outside a small village called Shor’s Stone. Harkon’s directions to Redwater Spring were dubious at best – no doubt he saw this as a test, the detestable Nord – and so she decided to scout the area before going in. There was also the necessity of needing to feed.

Animals, though bland and weak sustenance, were a much safer bet than people near any settlement and so Setareh drained two deer dry of their blood. She gutted and dressed the carcasses as dawn was coming; there was an inn, if the cottage with the sign was one, and she needed shelter from the sun. Meat would be welcome in a small village like this.

Shor’s Stone was a mining village that produced good quality iron, its inhabitants a mix of Nords and Orcs. The Tapped Vein’s owner welcomed the venison, offering her a pallet by the fire with a slightly apologetic smile. “The room’s already been taken by the Jarl,” he explained. “I can’t make the Jarl sleep on the floor, you know.”

“I understand,” Setareh assured him. That explained the three guards more than necessary for the village she saw outside. “I only will require a few hours of sleep and intend to leave before dawn tomorrow.”

The innkeeper relaxed. “Thank you. Jarl Lia doesn’t have her nose in the air the way Maven Black-Briar did but I can’t ask her to sleep on the floor! Filnjar would squawk like a chicken if I did – and he’s been hell to live with since spiders infested Redbelly Mine and no one could work.”

“Shame about Jarl Laila though,” remarked a female Nord seated by the fire, her right leg stuck out awkwardly. “Tripping and bashing her head on the stairs like that…”

Even in Bloodlet Throne, Setareh had heard of Maven Black-Briar, a notoriously corrupt politician whose Imperial allegiances were due more to money than loyalty. “You have spider problems?” she asked mildly. “I have some skill in magic.”

“If you’d arrived yesterday, Filnjar would have paid you to remove them,” the female Nord told her. “But Jarl Lia came up and took care of it. She was an adventurer before becoming Thane, I hear.”

“I don’t know about her being a sellsword, but she did more for Riften in two months than anyone else did in two years,” the innkeeper observed. “Cleared out a skooma operation, gave coin to every beggar in the city, helped Madesi, Talen-Jei and Brand-Shei, assisted Mjoll the Lioness in bringing Maven Black-Briar down for treason against the Jarl…”

_Convenient,_ Setareh thought amusedly. “I’m sure she’s a very impressive woman.”

“Not at first glance,” the innkeeper said with a chuckle. “Her da was a Redguard and she’s quite short for a Nord, bit plump with it too. But mark my words, she’s got nerves of steel and a heart of gold.”

Setareh accepted a cup of lukewarm ale, the deer having purchased her a bowl of vegetable soup, some bread and unlimited house mead or ale. The female Nord was Sylgja, who was recovering from an injury, and she didn’t get the innkeeper’s name because of his mumbling. The Tapped Vein was quite clean and snug for a village inn and none of Shor’s Stone’s inhabitants looked poor or sickly; it was a small but prosperous community, obviously administrated well by its hetman, the local blacksmith.

“Please, Jarl Lia, accept this small gift,” Filnjar was insisting when he and the Jarl entered the Tapped Vein about an hour later. “You didn’t have to see personally to the spiders.”

“The guard wasn’t doing their job,” Lia replied in a low sweet contralto. She was, as the innkeeper noted, short for a Nord and a little on the plump side. Her Redguard ancestor had been a Forebear from the east, judging by her olive-bronze complexion and the upturned nose, and her choice of a brown cotton dress and undyed shift was more suited to a clerk than a noblewoman. “The spiders weren’t that bad.”

“Let the man express his gratitude,” Setareh advised after a sip of ale. “It shows you value him and what he can give to the Hold.”

Lia’s eyes – an ordinary enough brown – narrowed… and then she nodded. “You’re right. Thanks for the advice.”

Filnjar pressed a finely wrought steel dagger into Lia’s hands. “Thank you again, my Jarl. Shor’s Stone stands behind you.”

“Just keep yourself out of trouble and pay your taxes on time,” Lia advised with an amused smile. “That’s all I ask.”

“Well, Harrald and Hemming will make no friends in our town,” he promised before going to join Sylgja by the firepit.

Setareh was unsurprised that Lia chose to join her on the other side of the inn. “What brings a Forebear noble so far east?” the Jarl asked bluntly as she took a seat at the table. “Are you Beroc’s emissary to the Stormcloaks?”

It was all Setareh could do not to spit her ale out. Lia, it seemed, was a well educated and travelled woman if she could recognise the peculiarities of Forebear fashion. But then, her Redguard father or grandfather was obviously a Forebear from Setareh’s own home region. He’d obviously made certain his daughter knew of her paternal culture, if only to recognise it.

“I’m on personal business,” she finally said after swallowing the ale. Thank the gods that vampires could consume food and drink, even if they derived no nourishment from it. “A matter of honour, one could say. Beroc has nothing to do with it.”

She wasn’t surprised to hear he was still alive. Beroc had the canny resilience that differentiated Forebear from Crown or Lhotunic.

“Vampires have honour?” Lia asked softly.

Setareh remained nonchalant, even when she saw golden light gathered in the palm of Lia’s hand. “I assure you, I mean you and your Hold no harm. Not all of us are blood-soaked murderers who delight in torture and torment. Some of us just try to live with the hand we were dealt.”

“Do you have anything to do with the exsanguinated bodies found southwest of here, just a bit north of Lake Honrich?” the Jarl asked in a low urgent voice. “I’ve heard rumours of a new kind of skooma coming from this place. Redwater, they call it.”

_What has Venarus done here?_ Setareh wondered. “Jarl Lia, that’s the exact reason why I’m here. The vampires there are… renegades, if you will.”

There was something hauntingly familiar in the way Lia tilted her head. “So you’re going to deal with them like a friendly neighbourhood vampire or something?”

“I am going to remove a group of people who are a thorn in both our sides,” Setareh answered mildly. “If I leave it to you, you’d need a minimum of twenty guards or a few good battlemages, and I hear the Stormcloaks have stripped the Old Holds bare of spare troops.”

Lia grimaced. “Not anymore. Neither Ulfric nor Tullius have made an offer good enough for me or my Hold.”

_Interesting._ “I pledge you, by the gods of Yokuda-that-was, I will harm none of your people,” Setareh promised. “The removal of the Redwater vampires will only benefit your Hold.”

“You don’t swear by Bal?”

“My condition wasn’t my choice. I have chosen to live with it because the other option was worse,” Setareh said dryly. “Whatever I am, I still consider myself a Forebear noble. You’re of Forebear blood yourself. Trust in that, if nothing else.”

The golden light in Lia’s hand winked out. “If I hear of one exsanguinated corpse among my people, I will find you, and I will destroy you. Trust in that.”

Setareh smiled crookedly. “You might not be Redguard, but there is Yokudan in you. I am Setareh.”

Lia’s expression went still. “That was my grandmother’s name.”

“I’m sure she was a great woman,” Setareh said softly.

“I wouldn’t know. She died giving birth to my uncle.” Lia rose to her feet. “There’s Dawnguard around. Finish your business and leave. I don’t want my Hold becoming a battleground between vampire and fanatic.”

“I will,” Setareh promised.


	4. Making Use

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, slavery, imprisonment, corpse desecration and mentions of child abuse, torture and war crimes.

“I’m not sure I’m keen on a vampire running around the Hold, even if she’s shutting down the skooma operation at Redwater Spring,” Iona said as they left the Tapped Vein.

“I’m not thrilled about it myself,” Lia admitted. “But we don’t have the twenty guards and four battlemages it would take to burn the place to the ground. She knows that if any Rifter dies, I’ll hunt her to the ends of the earth. It’s a Redguard thing.”

“You’re not a Redguard.”

“No, but my father was, and I learned a few things about the Forebears.” Lia mounted her horse, Iona and the three guards following suit. “What matters is Filnjar’s on our side and we’ve secured the iron from Redbelly Mine at little cost beyond a few firebolts.”

Her huscarl grimaced. Both of them knew the state of the Hold’s treasury from Laila’s extravagant spending, Anuriel’s corruption and Maven’s use of taxation clauses. Until the autumn tithes came in, Mistveil Keep ran on the ring of a clipped septim. If Harrald or Hemming should gain enough support to raise a rebellion…

_Ulfric or Tullius will leap at the chance to throw me out,_ Lia thought with dismay as they began to ride back to Riften. _I’d better accept emissaries from them like Balgruuf’s doing; that might buy me a few months._

Fort Greenwall had been purged of its bandits and now guards in Riften’s purple stood guard on the battlements. Faldar’s Tooth was still in the hands of more thugs, no word had come from Treva’s Watch or Darklight Tower, and Isran told her Fort Dawnguard was no concern of hers. The three farms and two lumber mills needed to be secured, a trip to Ivarstead was overdue, and there were rumours of three dragon lairs around the Velothi Mountains. Lia honestly wished Laila hadn’t tripped up and broken her neck. She’d been happy enough to be a Thane in her little house on Dryside. But after finding out the depths of Maven’s treason…

“Do you think Marcurio and Mjoll would work for loot?” she asked Iona. “We need Faldar’s Tooth and Treva’s Watch secured and…”

“Mjoll would do it but Marcurio wouldn’t,” Iona said after a moment’s thought. “I’ve… well, I’ve heard a few rumours about the bandits up at Faldar’s Tooth.”

“What about them?”

“They might be Stormcloaks in disguise. I know it sounds paranoid but…” Iona spread her hands helplessly.

“No. The Stormsword operated on Talosite scripture and Talos undermined Daggerfall by planting ‘bandits’ in the countryside, then sending in the Legion to purge them,” Lia said sourly. “It’s something she’d have done. Sometimes I wonder if she’d ever had an original thought in her life.”

Iona knew a version of the truth, that Lia had changed her name and face to escape accusations of treason because her mother’s family were Stormcloaks from western Skyrim, so she didn’t seem surprised at the character assessment. The Stormsword had left quite a mark on Falkreath and the Reach after all. “Well, if I ever find out who threw her into the harbour in full armour, I’ll buy them a drink,” the huscarl said cheerfully.

“That’s your call,” Lia murmured.

“As for the bandits, have a word to Brynjolf,” suggested one of the guards suddenly. “It’s in the Guild’s interests to make sure they’re kept in line too.”

“I’m not averse to some cooperation with and tolerance of the Guild, so long as they don’t cross the line,” Lia replied. “But I’ll be damned before I let them handle law enforcement. A burglar or pickpocket is one thing, but a warband of thugs holding keeps in the hinterlands is another.”

“Make Mjoll a Thane and give her one of the keeps,” Iona advised. “She’s got military experience you don’t.”

“So she does,” Lia agreed. “And I will.”

They dismounted at the stables and left their horses in Shadr’s care. “Jarl Ulfric’s sent an emissary,” the young Redguard reported. “It’s his son Egil.”

Lia winced. She wasn’t ready for this. But would she ever?

“You can keep him waiting until tomorrow,” Iona said softly as they entered the city. Both moons were full and so it was relatively bright this evening. She’d intended to stay overnight in Shor’s Stone, but that vampire Setareh saw too much – and looked uncomfortably unfamiliar – for Lia to trust being around her.

_It’s just a coincidence,_ she told herself. _Most of the eastern Forebear nobility’s related to each other, so she’s probably my fourth cousin or something. Maramal himself said I looked more Redguard than Nord._

That had been the point of visiting the face-sculptor, after all. Lia wasn’t as striking as she’d been, but few would see the resemblance to the Stormsword in a short, brown-eyed, snub-nosed woman. Best thousand septims she’d ever spent.

“Vampire!” yelled one of the guards in the marketplace.

Had Setareh broken her word? Calla called Turn Lesser Undead to her hand as she and Iona broke out into a trot. Even making a vampire flinch would provide enough opportunity for a better warrior to finish them off…

A gaunt-faced man, Nord from the looks of him, crumbled into dust under the mace and Restoration magic of an athletic sable-haired young man in fine steel chainmail. “Isran was right,” he growled. “They’re getting bolder.”

“Are you sure your father can spare you from the cause for this?” asked an older Stormcloak in the bearskins of an officer.

“After the massacre at the Hall of the Vigilant, we don’t have much of a choice,” Egil (shining paladin of Stendarr, who else could it be?) replied grimly. “Whatever the Volkihar are planning…”

“As if dragons and civil war aren’t enough, now we have vampires,” Lia sighed as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “What’s next, an undead Dragonborn with plans to conquer the world?”

“This is no laughing matter!” snapped Egil. “This-“

“Boy, I don’t give a shit who you answer to or who your parents are,” Lia interrupted wearily. “You’re in the Rift now, the Thanes voted me in as Jarl, and you can show some basic respect or be sent back to Windhelm with a boot up the arse.”

Much to her surprise, the old Stormcloak laughed. “Spoken like a Nord!”

“I _am_ a Nord,” Lia informed him. “My da and grandma were Redguards.”

“Is that so? I suppose you’re not fond of the Empire.” He offered his hand as Egil spluttered. “Galmar Stone-Fist. Ulfric figured you deserved a proper emissary. Young Egil here is passing through on the way to Fort Dawnguard.”

Lia took the hand and shook it. “Between the dragons _and_ the vampires _and_ those bandits Sigdrifa stuffed into Faldar’s Tooth, I’m borrowing a leaf from Balgruuf’s book and remaining neutral for now. Maven, gods rot her, ran the treasury into the ground – so I don’t have the time, coin or manpower to support anyone outside of my Hold.”

“Tullius may not give you the option, kinswoman,” Galmar told her with a sigh. “As a gesture of good faith, I’ll have the militia leave Faldar’s Tooth. You’re… Cyro-Nord, right? You have a bit of the Cyrod accent.”

“Something like that,” Lia admitted. “You’ve got two days to remove them or I’ll take Mjoll the Lioness, my battlemage Marcurio and my huscarl Iona to Faldar’s Tooth and do it myself.”

“You don’t have the soldiers to hold it,” Egil said bluntly, having recovered himself. “I’d think you’d welcome allies, being a woman of _reported_ honour and courage.”

“Egil!” Galmar roared. “You don’t question a Jarl’s honour and courage, not unless you plan to challenge her for the Hold!”

“Honour and courage are fine things but I’m more interested in pragmatism and results,” Lia told him candidly. “Ulfric hasn’t done much to impress me yet and while I know of Tullius’ capabilities as a military commander, I know he’s out of his depth now the dragons are involved. I saw Helgen. Riften’s a lot more flammable.”

“I can respect that,” Galmar said grudgingly. “But one way or the other, you may not have a choice.”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” Lia said mildly. “By the way, tell Isran that since his Dawnguard isn’t a recognised religious order, he owes me taxes in either goods or services.”

“Do I look like your messenger boy?” Egil demanded.

“No, but you’re going in the direction of Dayspring Canyon,” Lia told him. “If Isran’s going to set up shop in my Hold, he might as well be useful.”

“I hope you don’t choose the Empire,” Galmar said wryly. “I’d hate to kill a woman I think I respect.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said dryly.


	5. An Enemy Divided

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, imprisonment and mentions of drug use, torture and child abuse. Yes, I know the vampire Dengeir sends you to kill is Vinghar or something like that, but since I forgot his name when I started writing these stories I changed it to Balgeir and so Balgeir the Bloody it remains. It’s my head-canon and I’ll do what I wanna, lol.

Redwater Spring was, as Jarl Lia revealed, a skooma operation. Setareh had to give Venarus kudos for turning the spring’s flaws into an asset even as she deplored the degradation of his thralls and its effects on the coven. As the old saying went, “You are what you eat”, and most of the vampires here were sluggish from the skooma in the blood they consumed. There was little here she could salvage and so the purging of it was necessary.

_I did make a promise after all,_ Setareh mused as she pressed deeper into the ruins beneath the skooma den. _And vampire though I might be, one should keep promises to family._

She’d known that Rustem had married a Nord woman – one of Balgeir’s own kin, according to the renegade – and had produced offspring. Bloodlet Throne wasn’t as isolated from the world as Castle Volkihar, and Balgeir always had dreams of reclaiming the Stag Throne for himself after overthrowing Harkon, so its vampires kept abreast of news. Lia’s cheekbones and jaw had the chiselled quality of a Nord yet she was clearly of eastern Forebear ancestry for those with the eyes to see it. Not a woman whose beauty caught the gaze but one who was familiar in a pleasantly ordinary kind of way.

_Which no doubt serves her well as Jarl, because one could imagine sitting down with her at the inn for a meal or exchanging a few words in the marketplace._ Setareh paused as the creaking of bones reached her ears. _When it is safe to do so, I will tell her who I am, and offer my advice. Lia seems to have not inherited Arius’ madness._

Venarus’ minions had summoned draugr and skeletons to do their bidding, none of which prevented Setareh from destroying them with Destruction and her dagger. The Blades had called her a ‘nightblade’ because she favoured subtlety over raw strength, but she hadn’t been clever enough to anticipate the progression of Arius’ paranoia. Looking back, it made sense he’d be rid of her once she’d produced an heir and a spare – for had she not planned to be rid of him once the depths of his madness became known?

When she recovered from her turning, Setareh had used the meagre resources of Balgeir’s court to correct her lack of skill in Illusion. Arius had been a supreme master of the School, able to break a man’s heart through fear or induce an almost-psychotic loyalty in his followers. Even now, she didn’t have the power to match his, but even a flinch from Fear was enough space to drive her dagger into an enemy’s heart.

Finally she came to the heart of the ruins, where a spring the colour and scent of blood bubbled forth. Venarus had two friends with him – both thralls – and appeared distracted. Setareh took a deep breath, released it silently, and then cast Frenzy on the bigger of the two thralls. As the bandit turned on his master, she assumed Vampire Lord form and descended upon from the shadows.

Venarus, snug and secure in his sanctum, had grown complacent in a way that Harkon’s courtiers weren’t permitted to be. When her claws carved out his throat, she could smell the sweet reek of moon sugar, and she shook her head at the foolishness of consuming blood from skooma addicts. You were what you ate, indeed.

She’d resumed human form and was leafing through his books when the sounds of arguing reached her ears. _Stalf and Salonia, here?_ Setareh dropped the book and the Bloodstone Chalice, swallowed a handful of dust from one of Venarus’ vampiric followers, and used the half-minute of invisibility to retreat to the shadows as the two lesser courtiers burst into the room.

“It’s such a pity that Lord Harkon’s new favourite had an accident,” Salonia said brightly as she beheld the pile of ash that had been Venarus. “I suppose Venarus decided caution was the better part of valour after killing that Redguard cow.”

_Redguard cow?_ Cow? _I come from bloodlines that stretch back to the sister of Sura-HoonDing himself!_ Setareh thought, her fingers twitching. Not yet, not yet time to strike.

“Yeah, too bad. Lord Harkon's new favourite, dead so soon after joining the family,” Stalf laughed.

“We're just lucky I was here to return the Chalice to Vingalmo, so he could make sure Harkon gets it back,” Salonia continued smugly.

“Wait, what? That's not what we agreed. We take it back together!” snapped Stalf.

“Idiot,” Salonia retorted contemptuously. “You didn't really think I'd let you walk out of here either, did you? Vingalmo wants you dead – you and Orthjolf.”

“Well, that’s just fine with me,” Stalf sneered. “Orthjolf told me to finish off anyone who got in the way.”

_The greatest gift the gods can give you is an enemy divided among themselves,_ Setareh thought with grim amusement, her anger fading as both of them assumed Vampire Lord form. In ability, Stalf and Salonia were roughly equals, so even outside of a mutual kill the victor would be weakened enough for her to finish off.

It was unsurprising that Salonia emerged victorious, because while Stalf was the physically stronger he’d always favoured using his claws over honing his ability to raise the dead, so she was able to make use of Venarus’ thralls. As she went to pick up the Bloodstone Chalice, Setareh cast Calm to quell the last aggression in Salonia’s heart before simply walking up to her, setting her dagger to the Cyrod’s throat, and cutting it with one smooth slice into the Redwater Spring itself.

The water churned and bubbled, turning a richer hue, and the seed of Daedric power within Setareh responded to that bloody liquid. So blood removed the weaknesses which Venarus complained about. No wonder the Chalice sat on Molag Bal’s altar in the chapel.

She filled the cup, took everything valuable and portable, and used Telekinesis to bring down stones in the greater portion of the ruins before leaving. Only a true Volkihar vampire would be able to access the Redwater Spring now… as it should be.

Lia deserved the courtesy of knowing the skooma operation had been dealt with before Setareh returned to Castle Volkihar. She’d made promises after all.


	6. Grandmother Vampire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of child abuse, imprisonment and torture. Oakwood and Little Vivec come from an Arthmoor mod and ‘Moon and Star’ respectively.

“You need a Steward,” Iona observed as Lia opened an accounts book.

“Sure, I’ll dip into my non-existent treasury and find the cash to hire an honest one,” Lia answered dryly. “I wish Laila hadn’t died. I could have served very well as her Steward.”

Iona nodded. “I know what you mean. I never expected to become the Jarl’s huscarl. I was only made a huscarl to begin with because my grandfather was Laila’s bastard uncle.”

“Do Jarls usually make their bastards huscarls?” Lia asked, looking up from the book.

“The wise ones make them huscarls, franklins and Thanes. We don’t have bastardry as the Cyrods and Bretons do; illegitimate children are just lower down the order of succession.” Iona pursed her lips. “Unless, when it comes to choosing a Jarl, the Holdmoot thinks better of a bastard than the legitimate heir.”

“How democratic,” Lia mused. “It’s usually absolute primogeniture in Cyrodiil – the eldest legitimate heir inherits the position.”

“It’s usually like that up here too, but the Holdmoot reminds the Jarls their power isn’t absolute. Look at what happened in Falkreath; everyone got sick of Dengeir and had him replaced with Siddgeir, his nephew.”

Lia snorted. “Tullius paid out the Thanes of Oakwood and Helgen, gave a lucrative lumber contract to Half-Moon Mill, and sweet-talked the franklin of Little Vivec by pointing out Dengeir was a racist piece of shit. Even Holdmoots can be corrupted.”

“But it wouldn’t have been so easy if Dengeir hadn’t been… well, who he was.” Iona turned for the door. “Do you need anything else tonight, my Jarl?”

“I’m good. Just a long night of going over accounts. If you find such a mythical creature as an honest Steward who will work for a pittance, let me know.” Lia smiled at her. “Gods with you.”

“And you, my Jarl.” Iona bowed and left for her own bed.

Lia hadn’t even turned a page before the balcony door opened. “Redwater Spring has been dealt with,” spoke a smooth courtier’s contralto from the darkness outside.

“Thank you,” Lia said. “Was the vampire who got himself killed by Egil Storm-Born one of your friends?”

“No.” Setareh stepped inside, leaning against the doorframe. Even in undeath, she maintained the heavy coiled strands tipped with semi-precious beads and thickly kohled eyes of a Forebear noblewoman, her robes of black and red made from costly silk and velvet. “Storm-Born? Even by Nord standards that’s melodramatic.”

“His father is called Stormcloak and his mother the Stormsword,” Lia answered dryly. “Stormcrown was already taken, his father’s favourite spy is called Storm-Hammer, and Storm-Mace just doesn’t have the right ring to it.”

“Let me guess – they’re all avid Talos worshippers.”

“Egil worships Stendarr but yeah, his family rebelled against the Empire after the White-Gold Concordat.” Lia gave the vampire a raised eyebrow. “Did you have anything to do with the massacre at the Hall of the Vigilant? I can overlook the odd vampire but if there’s an active conspiracy…”

“Harkon. That Satakal- _damned_ idiot,” Setareh cursed under her breath.

“Harkon?” Lia wondered if she should activate Turn Lesser Undead. It might give her enough time to follow up with a firebolt if Setareh turned nasty.

“An idiot who is obsessed with an ancient prophecy that might get every vampire killed in the end,” the Redguard woman said grimly. “If he succeeds…”

She shook her head, muttering in Forebear Yokudan. “I’m not ready. Yet again, my so-called lord and master acts before I am in a place to stop him. But this time, I am not weak from a birthing.”

From her previous life as an Imperial bureaucrat, Lia had been fluent in most of the Empire’s major languages, with a smattering of Old Colovian, Akaviri and Dragonish from her childhood among the Blades, conversational Reach-tongue from her grandma Catriona, and even enough Saxhleel to insult someone’s sexual habits and likely ancestry. She stared at Setareh with her compact build, reddish-brown complexion and rounded features, contemplated her friendliness and willingness to help, and put together the facts as she had done so for most of her life in order to survive.

“You’re Setareh. Who was married to Arius,” she said softly. “Talos _titty-fucking_ Dibella. You’re…”

“Granddaughter, you shouldn’t blaspheme the gods, even one such as Talos,” Setareh chided. “But yes, I am. I knew Rustem had married a Nord woman and had a child, but little more than that. I’m pleased to see you haven’t inherited Arius’ madness. He would have been a bad Emperor… and his paranoia outplayed my preparations to deal with him. I regret that.”

“Fuck me. I fake my death, change my face, and my paternal granma shows up as a random vampire to inform me another vampire is planning something that’s going to end poorly for everyone. Was it too much to hope that the fucked-up weirdness that follows the Aurelii everywhere skipped a generation? Apparently so, according to the gods.”

“It didn’t take me long to figure out. You look very much like the Redguard side of the family,” Setareh told her with a hint of sympathy. “I’m assuming you changed your face because of the Blades? I’d heard they’d supposedly been killed…”

“Arius was bugfuck nuts, tried to take over the Pale Pass to force the Elder Council to make him Emperor, and got himself killed by the Thalmor when Titus Mede signed the White-Gold Concordat that banned Talos worship,” Lia told her bluntly. “Arius was betrayed because my mother’s father Dengeir alerted the garrison, because Da thought it was a good idea to commit adultery on his wife in an attempt to end the marriage.”

She pushed her hair back from her face. “That is all behind me. I didn’t plan on becoming Jarl, but the Rift needs a leader, and here I am. I think Da’s with the Dark Brotherhood, Uncle Irkand kills things for Arkay, and someone drowned my mother three weeks ago in Windhelm’s harbour. Thank you for dealing with the Redwater skooma operation. Good luck with stopping this Harkon.”

“You have given me more family history than I knew at Bloodlet Throne,” Setareh said softly. “I remember Balgeir killing Dengeir’s two sons when they refused to become vampires. If I’d known they were kin, I might have done something about him sooner.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. _Shit._ ” Lia gripped two locks of her hair tightly, trying to collect herself. “I… just…”

“You’ve grown up believing I was dead… and from the sounds of it, Arius was as stupid and incompetent as I feared. Perhaps I should have killed him after Rustem’s birth, but I wanted to make sure he’d survive his first years, and then I fell pregnant with Irkand…” Setareh sighed and gestured with her hand, a burst of crimson light enveloping Lia and driving away the sudden fear with a sense of false calm. “You tend to your problems and I will tend to mine for now, Lia. But I will help where I can, I promise.”

“I can’t promise I can keep the Dawnguard off you,” Lia said softly. “Isran’s a fanatic. Him and Uncle Irkand used to work together. But so far as the world is concerned, Aurelia Callaina died at Helgen. I intend to keep it that way. So any contact…”

“Will have to be discreet.” Setareh smiled warmly, the expression diminishing the gauntness of her face. “Harkon may have caught me unprepared but he is quite arrogant in his power. That shall be his downfall, I promise. I won’t let him destroy us all.”

Then she was gone, a night wind stirring the open door, and Lia’s knees buckled as the Calm spell ended.

After a Hagraven granma, her other granma being a vampire was pretty pedestrian for one of the Aurelii. But it just went to show there was no running from her history.

Lia grabbed the desk to help herself up. Vampires and apocalypses or not, she had accounts to go over. Bureaucracy probably wouldn’t grind to a halt until the last tax official went kicking down the World-Eater’s throat, and even then the Daedra had their own version of it in Oblivion.

But for all her plans, it was a long time before she could concentrate on it, and by then it was time to sleep. And then her nightmares were confused things of blood and fire and dragons and vampires.


	7. The Last Dragonborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, slavery and mentions of torture, child sexual abuse, rape/non-con and imprisonment. You can thank Jahoan for Dragonborn!Serana.

_“You idiots!”_

Ronthil winced as Harkon roared the insult across the feasting hall, followed by the metallic ring of a thrown silver goblet hitting stone. As to who was the idiot, no one could be certain, because Orthjolf, Vingalmo and Setareh were facing the Lord of Clan Volkihar. Stalf and Salonia hadn’t come back but his lady had. Two less bullies in the court.

“My Jarl,” Orthjolf began, only to fall silent as Harkon growled in warning.

“If Lokil had not completely and utterly fucked up his mission, I would be deciding which one of you would be explaining yourselves to our Lord _in person_ for your failure,” he snarled. “Is it too much to ask for my huscarl and my court wizard to have a little trust in my judgement? I should have sent Setareh with Lokil. _She_ could have persuaded Serana to come home.”

He waved a hand. “You three are dismissed. Setareh, thank you for retrieving the Bloodstone Chalice. It will strengthen us in these days of dark prophecy. You may call yourself Thane of my court.”

Setareh bowed elegantly, touching her lips. “You are most gracious, Lord Harkon. I did not expect such a reward. I hope I will not fail you.”

The Nord rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “I require an emissary to the courts of Skyrim. Someone who is wise, shrewd and discreet. There will be Jarls who will need to die when I am High King and those who will be worth turning. You have experience in these things.”

“I will, of course, inform them of the dangers of an unregulated group of fanatics like the Dawnguard,” Setareh said with a smile. “The Jarl of the Rift is already displeased with them.”

“Is that so? Encourage the rift, if you will forgive the pun, between them. Any Jarl amenable to our influence is worth saving.” Harkon nodded. “Go, join the feast.”

“I shall,” she murmured, bowing and touching her lips. “Thank you again, Lord Harkon.”

Ronthil waited until she’d entered the library to approach her. “My lady,” he said with a bow. “Is there any way I could serve you?”

“I have some things to trade,” she said gently. “Walk with me on the battlements.”

It was a clear night, Secunda hanging full over the castle as Masser lingered in quarter-profile on the horizon. Setareh inhaled deeply and then exhaled slowly. “Serana is Harkon’s daughter, correct?”

“Yes, my lady,” Ronthil confirmed. “She’s the key to the Tyranny of the Sun prophecy. Harkon had her turned into a true Daughter of Coldharbour.”

“I had a husband who turned my sons into weapons,” she said bitterly. “I knew another man who sent his sons to die at the hands of Balgeir the Bloody. Children are the hope of tomorrow, not tools to be used to further one’s goals without regard for what they might wish.”

“It would be treason to defy Lord Harkon’s wishes in this,” Ronthil said very quietly.

“Who said I would disobey him? I am emissary to the Jarls of Skyrim. There are few places Serana can go and be safe.” She looked over the sea, her expression pensive. “You and I are survivors, Ronthil. We were meant to die and we refused to do our abusers that favour. That makes us two of a kind.”

“I don’t claim to be your equal, my lady,” he said softly. “But I am your loyal servant nevertheless.”

“Huscarl to my Thane? Would I’d had such loyalty in my husband’s household.” Setareh touched her forehead, lips and heart before pressing her fingertips to his heart. “I will return loyalty with loyalty. With Stalf and Salonia so fortuitously gone, there is a spare coffin. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, as the Cyrods say. Claim one and none will dispute you.”

“Salonia’s is the best, my lady. Take that one and none will argue with me using your old one, as it’s not worthy of your station,” Ronthil advised.

“I shall.” She smiled slightly. “We are two of a kind, you and I.”

“As you say, my lady.” They weren’t, but he wouldn’t disagree with her.

…

Serana had just meant to slip into the dank unlovely city on the lake, seduce someone at the inn, feed on them and then find a place to rest during the day. But the dragon had come swooping from above, growling insults in guttural Dovahzul that could have turned Harkon’s hair white in horror, and blasted the guards with fire. If it wasn’t for her magical skills, she’d be a little pile of ash at the front gate. Instead, the dragon was a bleached pile of bones, and her soul thrummed with power from the flesh that burned away when she neared it.

The guards had chivvied her into the city, providing an awed escort to the Jarl’s keep, which was an ugly squat fortress. The canals reeked of stagnant water and refuse while most of the populace had light feet and a wary gaze. This obviously wasn’t Skyrim’s cultural or trading hub.

Inside, more guards were arming up under the command of a tawny-haired Rifter in totemic plate embossed with hawks, a short rounded brunette donning mage robes over a simple shift and breeks. “My Jarl, it isn’t wise to attack a dragon head-on,” the tawny-haired woman said to the brunette.

“That’s what you and Mjoll are for,” the Jarl replied dryly, nodding to an older woman with wheat-golden hair and warpaint down one side of her face. “I’ll just drop rocks on its wings so it can’t fly away.”

“Jarl Lia,” reported the chief guard. “The dragon’s dead and we’ve delivered the Dragonborn to you.”

The Jarl paused in putting on a cotton yoke. “You _arrested_ the Dragonborn?”

“No! We escorted her to you because we know you’d want to honour her,” the guard said hastily. “I mean, she raised Floki to help kill it, but I’m sure he’s now drinking in Sovngarde.”

“That’d be the Floki who was taking bribes from Brynjolf, right?” Mjoll asked severely. “I doubt he’s drinking in Sovngarde.”

“If he was Nord and died with a sword in his hand, he’s in Sovngarde, may the gods help him,” Jarl Lia said with a sigh. “Kyne’s windy cavern, this is the first bit of good news I’ve had in three days.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Dragonborn, welcome to Riften. Since you saved my city from going up in flames, I’m going to overlook the emergency use of necromancy and caution you to follow the College rules from here in on during your visit to the Hold. Do you have a name or is-?”

“DOVAHKIIN!” rang out a thunderous cry that almost shook the keep to its foundations.

“Right on cue, that’d be the Greybeards summoning you to High Hrothgar,” the Jarl finished in the same weary, slightly harried voice. She was of obvious Yokudan ancestry, her features pleasantly pretty instead of beautiful, and there was a quiet strength in that drab brown gaze Serana immediately liked. Harkon would have sent others to die, not prepared to wade into a fight with a dragon himself.

“I’m Serana,” she said quietly. “Serana Harkonsdottir.”

Surely she’d been imprisoned long enough for her father to have been forgotten.

“Mjoll, Iona, go and assess the damage done by the dragon,” the Jarl ordered crisply. “I’ll be speaking with the Dragonborn in my office.”

“As you command, my Jarl,” Iona said with a slight bow.

But Mjoll, her eyes narrowed, paused. “Is that wise, my Jarl?”

Lia’s hand sparked golden. “I can hold my own if necessary.”

“Very well,” the older blonde said unhappily before following Iona and the guards out.

Serana followed the Jarl up to a spartan office on the second floor. “I’m guessing you know who I am.”

“A vampire claiming to be the daughter of some guy planning an apocalyptic event walks into my keep wearing an Elder Scroll after sucking out a dragon’s soul like a cherry-pip. Dragonborn are generally natural disasters in of themselves but I think you’re going to take it to a whole new level.” The Jarl leaned against her desk, golden light still shining through her fingers. “What in the name of Stendarr’s sagging left arse-cheek is Harkon the so-called bloody Cruel up to?”

“My father lives up to his name,” Serana said flatly. “He sacrificed thousands and gave me to Molag Bal as a sacrifice for immortality. I became a Daughter of Coldharbour and he became obsessed with an ancient prophecy that spoke of blotting out the sun so that vampires could rule the world.”

Lia’s eyes widened in horror. “And I thought _my_ parents were horrible. My granma called him a Satakal-damned idiot, and for a Redguard – even a vampire – to invoke the god of everything like that, he’s got to be a real joy to be around. Serana, I’m so sorry. What your father did was wrong and it was never your fault.”

“Your grandmother’s a _vampire_?” Serana blurted.

“I found out three days ago,” Lia said with a ghost of wry humour in her voice. “My other granma’s a Hagraven.”

“My mother chose to become a Daughter of Coldharbour over being a Hagraven because she thought Molag Bal offered the better deal than Hircine,” Serana said, suddenly wearily. “And now I’m a Dragonborn, whatever the fuck that is.”

“You’re Nord, right?” Lia asked gently.

“Of the purest Atmorani blood.” Serana tilted her head. “You’re Yokudan, right? I mean… Redguard.”

“Da was. I’m a Nord, believe it or not.” Lia turned around and poured herself a goblet of wine. “Can you drink?”

“I can, but I can’t get drunk,” Serana admitted. “I was, uh, going to seduce someone and…”

“There’s a fort full of bandits across the lake at Faldar’s Tooth. Help yourself,” Lia suggested pragmatically. “I’m guessing from your tone and attitude you’re not on board with your da’s plans. That’s good, because it’s your job to cancel the apocalypse as the Last Dragonborn. Miraak was the first, if that gives you context.”

Serana was an educated woman who knew of the horrors of Miraak, the Dragon Priest who could command dragons to die at will, and she shuddered. “I’m not like him. I don’t want to rule the world. I just want to live in peace and study magic.”

Lia reached out and squeezed her hand. Her fingers were warm and dry. “Alduin can be defeated. If three Tongues with an Elder Scroll can kick his arse, a vampire Dragonborn with an Elder Scroll won’t break a sweat.”

Well, Serana’s day just went from bad to worse, but she didn’t want to let this potential ally know that. Lia knew about Harkon and his plans, she clearly knew something about dragons, and she had the resources of a Hold at her command. This was as good a place to hole up as any. “Can I stay here for a bit? I don’t have much and…”

Lia’s grin was wolfish. “I was going to make you Thane before any other Jarl got their mitts on you. Riften ain’t the prettiest city in Skyrim but we’re hard by Morrowind and Cyrodiil, most of the racists have fucked off to Windhelm, and having you around will keep Ulfric and Tullius off my back long enough for me to rebuild my Hold.”

Serana goggled. “I’m a Daughter of Coldharbour. Are you _insane_?”

“I come from a long line of crazy people,” Lia answered softly. “But at the moment, my treasury is depleted, I have a canyon full of batshit insane ex-Vigilants in the Velothi Mountains who will come for Harkon when they find out his plans, and I have two noblemen who want to overthrow me because one’s mama was Jarl and the other one would have been Jarl when the Imperials took over. You need a bolthole and I need a Thane. What do you say?”

“Put like that…” Despite herself, Serana smiled. “Can your granma be trusted? If she knows of Harkon…”

“She’s planning to overthrow the bastard. Given she’s a Forebear from Hammerfell and he hasn’t done anything significant since the Atmorani discovered fire, my bet’s on her,” Lia said wryly. “Old and powerful and isolated because old and complacent. You grow or you die. That’s the rede of Kyne.”

“Then I’ll stay,” Serana murmured.


	8. Tact and Diplomacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of torture, imprisonment, child sexual abuse, rape/non-con and war crimes.

“The Dragonborn is a vampire. With an Elder Scroll. Who’s just been made Thane of the Rift. Laila was an idiot and Maven was corrupt but by the gods, neither of them were as insane as Jarl Lia seems to be.”

Isran’s outrage, delivered in a baritone rumble, could be heard clear across the mess hall and into the forge where Sorine and Gunmar plied their trades. Egil, teaching Agmaer some basic Restoration magic, arched his eyebrows in surprise. The Jarl he’d met in Riften didn’t seem insane to him. Proud and a bit too amoral for his liking, aye, but not insane.

“That’s not insanity. It’s outright fucking genius,” observed Durak, a former Orcish chief from Orsinium. “She’s just recruited a weapon that will make Ulfric and Tullius step warily around her. We already know that Serana fled her father’s minions at Dimhollow Crypt, so she probably isn’t on board with his plans.”

“A weapon that might turn on her,” Isran growled. “Can you believe she’s sent me a bill for taxes because we’re not a recognised fighting or religious order?”

“Sounds about right. Be glad this is Skyrim, where we can pay our taxes in service instead of coin and goods,” Irkand, a stocky Redguard with an oily-smooth tenor, pointed out. “We need good relationships with the local nobility and that means paying our taxes. Clearing out a few bandits and necromancers ought to do the trick – and we do need to blood our recruits. Volkihar vampires are harder to kill than most.”

“If _you’re_ saying they’re hard to kill, Agmaer and the rest will be dead ducks if they fight one,” Durak rasped.

“Which is why we need to give our recruits more experience on easier foes,” Irkand agreed mildly.

“I’ll put Egil on it. Boy’s a skilled small-squad commander and has taken it upon himself to teach the recruits Restoration and combat skills,” Isran decided. “I need you, Durak and Celann for bigger problems.”

“Like your lack of tact and diplomacy?” Celann, the Breton-bred ex-Vigilant, asked dryly.

“That’s why you and I are here,” Durak said with a chuckle. “Because between them, Irkand and Isran have the tact and diplomacy of a gnat.”

“What does tact and diplomacy have to do with fighting vampires?” Agmaer, a young Rifter who’d been a shepherd until three weeks ago, asked in confusion.

“Well, for instance, we have an awkward situation because Jarl Lia’s just made a vampire who happens to be Dragonborn Thane of the Rift,” Egil explained, remembering a similar question asked by him several years ago. “Serana… Well, she doesn’t seem to be keen on Harkon’s plans, so that’s a minor blessing. If we kill her, we doom the world. If we don’t, we might still doom the world. All we can do is keep an eye on her and make sure Jarl Lia doesn’t turn on us.”

“Durak would probably make the best emissary to the Jarl,” Sorine opined as she fiddled with a crossbow. “Lia’s known to be blunt-spoken and pragmatic, so Durak would be able to work with that, and he’s smart enough not to go pick a fight with a vampire where it could cause more trouble than what it’s worth.”

“Pragmatic? The woman’s practically amoral!” Egil protested. “And rude as a hungry horker!”

“You’re not exactly the paragon of tact and diplomacy yourself, Egil,” Sorine noted. “Didn’t _you_ question her courage and honour on meeting her?”

“The woman’s no worse than your mother was and probably a great deal more decent,” Gunmar agreed as he sharpened a sword. “I’d prefer a Jarl less inclined to befriending vampires myself, but I might just make an exception for the Dragonborn. Some vampires do just try to cause as little harm as possible.”

“So it’s watch, wait and hope for the best?” Agmaer asked.

“Sometimes it’s all we can do, lad.”

…

Brynjolf was the kind of handsome sweet-tongued rogue that made many a person’s heartbeat skip and lured them into poor life choices. That devilish half-smile detracted from the gem-hard glint to his green eyes and the nimble fingers that relieved marks of their coin. If he’d gotten into politics, he might have been Jarl himself. Lia could only suppose joining the Guild was a more honest choice.

“Lass, I assure you, I’m not selling fake potions,” he protested just a shade too heartily. “The effects may be exaggerated a touch-“

“At best, you’re selling a watered-down stamina potion,” Lia interrupted with a pointed sigh. “At worst, you’re selling false cures to the sick who might yet die because they pinned their hopes on your concoctions. Which charge would you prefer to face? One carries a fine and the other carries a death sentence.”

The roguish smile departed hastily. “I always send the sick to the Temple, lass. I’m a snake-oil salesman, not a complete and utter bastard. I usually go for the mountain franklin who’s looking for a cure for his lost hair and virility.”

Lia leaned back in her seat, watching the Day Master of the Thieves’ Guild from across the desk. The brogue reminded her of her granma Catriona and her own inquiry confirmed this man was a survivor of the Markarth Incident, taken from his Reach family to be raised by lowlander Nords. They shared enough in common for her to empathise with him, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t make use of every tool to hand. Brynjolf had resources she needed.

“I consider myself a realist,” she said after a moment’s silence. “The Guild isn’t going anywhere and in many cases, you do half the guard’s work for them by keeping the level of crime to a tolerable minimum.”

“And here I heard you were going to purge the Ratway with fire and sword,” Brynjolf observed.

“I don’t want it to come to that. Maven’s dead, praise the gods, and I want the practices she encouraged to die with her.” Lia regarded Brynjolf frankly. “No extortion, no framing of innocent businessfolk, no politics, no skooma and no subversion of officials in my court.”

“What about Holds outside the Rift?” he asked slowly.

“I don’t give a rat’s arse what you do outside my Hold,” Lia answered candidly. “So long as it doesn’t bring reprisal on the Rift, of course.”

Brynjolf nodded slowly. “Are you sure you’re in the right job, lass? You’d make a good extortionist.”

“The only difference between politics and thievery is that the latter’s more honest,” Lia drawled. “I do, however, have a job for the Guild… and while I can’t pay in coin, I can promise a decent amount of loot from it, and an almost sure-fire smuggler’s route from Cyrodiil to Skyrim.”

Brynjolf’s eyes brightened. “Well, lass, you certainly have my attention.”


	9. To Be of Service

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, slavery, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, torture, child sexual abuse, child abuse and war crimes.

“Setareh! A word?”

She turned to face Feran Sadri, beaded locks clicking pleasantly. Being named Thane of Harkon’s court had given her a space of her own in the castle and a certain amount of authority over other junior courtiers. “Is this about me poaching Ronthil?” she asked ruefully. “I did ask him to be available if you needed him for acquiring more magical and alchemical supplies.”

The Dunmer shook his head. “Honestly, it was getting a little tedious between him asking to be of service every five minutes and managing to screw up half my orders. If you can make something of him, more power to you.”

“His supply issues weren’t so much his competence but the civil war affecting trade routes,” Setareh explained. “Ulfric’s sponsored pirates on the Sea of Ghosts, which has affected shipping, and the Legion’s confiscating merchant inventory in Haafingar. There’s few enough who would sell to vampires and now most of them are dead, missing or squeezed out of business. Unless we can bestir a couple younger courtiers to move themselves to usefulness, or give Ronthil access to a couple of the more competent thralls, there’s not much he can do about it.”

“Son of a guar,” Feran cursed under his breath. “What can we do about it?”

“I intend to reach out to the Thieves’ Guild in Riften,” she admitted. “Lord Harkon gave me the order to encourage Jarl Lia in her dislike of the Dawnguard, so one might as well kill two birds with one stone. Pity none of the Black Sacraments seem to be working these days, because I’d get the Dark Brotherhood to soften up the Dawnguard by assassinating competent members. Isran, for all his charmless personality, is a veteran Vigilant and he’s made a few equally competent friends.”

“Politics,” Feran said disgustedly. “Between Orthjolf and Vingalmo, the court’s rife with it.”

“I grew up in a noble household and spent time in the High King’s court at Sentinel, so I’m more used to that side of life,” Setareh said mildly. “The danger lies in letting personal politics threaten the kingdom as a whole.”

He grimaced. “Between the mess at Dimhollow Crypt and those two idiots killing each other at Redwater Spring…”

“Is the loss of Serana such a setback? I apologise if I’m prying into matters above my paygrade, but what’s stopping Lord Harkon from finding another Daughter of Coldharbour? Surely any female Volkihar vampire will serve.” Setareh clasped her hands before her, tilting her head inquisitively.

“Daughters of Coldharbour are the survivors of a rite that turns them into pure-blooded vampires at the hands of our Lord Molag Bal Himself,” Feran answered in a low voice. “If you, without drinking from the Bloodstone Chalice, were to turn someone… they’d essentially be thin-bloods indistinguishable from someone who caught the disease. Bal turned Serana, who went virgin into the rite, and her mother Valerica. Both are Daughters of Coldharbour – Valerica turned Harkon, who turned Balgeir, who turned you – but Serana’s blood is the more potent because she was purer before the rite. Finding someone with the right qualifications and toughness to survive…”

Setareh suppressed a shudder. She had learned to live with her monstrosity through necessity, because unlife was better than damnation to Coldharbour, but Harkon had been a monster even before becoming a Vampire Lord. But Feran had given her a critical piece of information that might yet serve her well in the future.

“Speaking of ancient blood, I do have a favour to ask of you,” Feran continued, shaking his head. “I’ve been researching the Bloodstone Chalice and I’ve found a ritual that requires the petrified remains of an elder vampire or three. You actually provided the first piece of four by delivering Balgeir’s head. The bastard was a traitor, but he’d become an elder Vampire Lord in the century and a half since he abandoned Lord Harkon.”

“Glad to be of service,” Setareh observed without irony.

Feran chuckled. “You actually sound sincere. No wonder Harkon respects you. I need you to go to Treva’s Watch in the Rift, which should fit right into your plans. Will you do it?”

“Of course,” Setareh said mildly. “I did say I was glad to be of service after all.”

…

“You mean to tell me that we have a personal feud going on in the Rift and none of you saw fit to inform me until now?”

Lia’s brown gaze, no longer quietly strong, raked across her court and Serana fancied she smelt scorched flesh in its wake. News of Treva’s Watch had reached them this morning and the Jarl immediately called an emergency meeting to deal with the situation.

“We thought Thane Stalleo was away fulfilling his commitments to the Stormcloaks, hence the lack of communication from the fort,” said Unmid Snow-Shod, who’d been Laila’s huscarl and now was commander of the Hold guard. “It wasn’t until the messenger arrived that we realised him and Brurid were fighting each other.”

“Who’s Brurid when he’s at home?” Lia pushed back her black hair, frizzy strands twining around strong olive-bronze fingers.

“Ex-Legion battlemage,” Mjoll reported with a grimace. “Him and Stalleo damned near killed each other just after the news of Torygg’s death came to Riften. Laila tried to keep the peace but… I’m pretty sure Maven was selling weapons and information to both sides.”

“Of course she was. Every Thane that was weakened or indebted to her made acquiring the Mist Throne that little bit easier,” Lia observed sardonically. “Why Tullius thought she was trustworthy is beyond me.”

“The Empire has always preferred a corrupt Jarl who’s amenable to their influence over a principled one who might disagree with them,” Unmid pointed out.

“And the Stormcloaks actively planted agents in each of the Old Holds in the form of ‘bandits’,” Lia countered. “Honestly, from where I’m sitting, both sides suck.”

_Amen_ , Serana agreed. In the week of being Thane of the Rift, she’d come to appreciate Lia’s honest practicality. Harkon wasn’t half the Jarl this woman was, for all his claims of wanting to serve vampirekind by destroying the sun.

“You’ll get no argument from me,” rumbled an Orc in quilted leather armour who’d pushed himself through the crowd. He wore a crossbow on his hip and a warhammer, etched with a stylised sun, across his back. “I’m Durak of the Dawnguard. Isran’s sent me as an emissary to your court, Jarl Lia.”

“Has he sent those taxes he asked for?” Lia asked.

Durak snickered. “His response was in language unbefitting a Vigilant, if he’d still been one. Even Irkand looked a little startled by his choice of words and I never thought I’d see Arkay’s Blade shocked.”

“Irkand’s with the Dawnguard? Of course he’s with the Dawnguard.” Lia leaned forward in her throne. “You want to kick the arses of Harkon and his friends, go ahead. The man sounds crazy as a loon. But come after the Dragonborn and I’ll send you to Stendarr with a boot up the arse. Understood?”

“I did come here to assure the Dragonborn we won’t pick a fight with her so long as she doesn’t assist her father in his plans,” Durak said, giving Serana a quick assessing glance. “If she does, we might decide it’s better to end the world than live in one where vampires rule.”

“To be honest, letting Alduin consume the world will be better than my father ruling it,” Serana agreed soberly. “I was actually trying to reach the Dawnguard, once I realised we might be on the same side, when the dragon showed up at Riften.”

“Me and Isran lost our families to vampires,” Durak said bluntly. “Celann and Tolan were Vigilants. Egil’s Vigilant-trained and lost friends at the Hall’s massacre. Some of our recruits want to be heroes and others want to save the world and a few are in it for steady work. I can’t promise you’ll be welcomed with open arms but even Isran will bite his tongue if you agree to assist us without reserve.”

“Isran will give my Thane the respect she deserves or he can set up shop in some other Hold,” Lia said in a softly warning tone. “And you haven’t answered my questions about the owed taxes.”

“I was about to offer our services in retaking Treva’s Watch,” Durak told her. “That’s a critical point of defence on the river from Ivarstead.”

Lia paused, then shook her head. “No. I might need to make an example of both sides. Serana and I need to go to Ivarstead anyway, so I was going to take ourselves, my huscarl Iona, the battlemage Marcurio and sellsword Mjoll and twenty guards. I have plans for that fort which don’t include the Dawnguard. You go where I direct if you’re killing things in lieu of tax, not pick and choose how you pay.”

“Isran would have handed the fort over to you,” Durak protested.

“Would he have? Given he took over a major border fortress, whatever its original purpose, without even troubling himself to get Laila’s permission…” Lia let the words trail off. “No one planned on the Dragonborn being a vampire, least of all herself. I’m willing to work with Isran but I’ll be damned if I let _another_ faction snip off pieces of my Hold. Understood?”

“Understood,” the Orc agreed with a sigh. “What about Nilheim? Lots of travellers and traders disappearing around there.”

“That is acceptable,” Lia said. “In return, I’ll have Serana write down everything she knows about her father’s plans… if that is acceptable to my Thane?”

“I’ll share what is useful,” Serana promised, quashing a twinge of regret. She couldn’t count on this Setareh to stop her father’s plans, so she might need to give intelligence to the Dawnguard. Her father was lost. She could only hope some of his court found some sense and fled his mad plans.

Hopefully, these Greybeards could teach her more about the Thu’um. The Voice would be a powerful weapon neither Harkon nor Dawnguard would be expecting.

But Lord, she needed to meet this Setareh and soon. She needed to know what was going on in her father’s court.


	10. Treva's Watch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, imprisonment and mentions of torture, war crimes, child death and religious conflict.

“Finally, reinforcements have arrived. I was expecting more though, you'd better be good.”

Lia arched her brows at the auburn-haired man in rough fur garments. “Thane Stalleo, I presume?”

“Who else would I be?” he asked flatly. “I recognise Iona and Mjoll, but who in Oblivion are you? The Legion’s sent you to assist me in retaking my castle, not to ask stupid questions!”

“I’m Lia, the new Jarl of the Rift, and you hold Treva’s Watch at my pleasure,” Lia informed him calmly. “From the looks of it, your planned assault went tits up and most of your men are dead. What in the name of Kyne is going on here between you and Brurid?”

“He’s a damned filthy faithless Imperial and he’s taken my castle with my family inside!” snapped Stalleo. “He might have hurt them, Talos damn him!”

“Jarl Lia? I’m Rollo, Stalleo’s huscarl,” said a rough-looking man in hide armour. “Brurid got drummed out of the Legion for brutality. Whatever you think of the politics, he’s a magic-using piece of shit.”

“ _I_ have some training in magic,” Lia answered. “But I think I’ll evict this son of a bitch and his goons from my fortress. What can you tell me about this place?”

“We were planning to ask one of the reinforcements to enter through the escape tunnel,” Rollo answered as Stalleo spluttered. “I know it’s not honourable but… Brurid really is a piece of shit. I’d’ve said it if he was a Stormcloak.”

“Honour’s a nice thing but when your enemies have none, it’s a stupid weapon to use,” Lia agreed. “I’m guessing infiltration and someone to open the gates?”

“And slaughter every scum bastard inside!” Stalleo snapped.

Lia turned to Serana. “Well, Thane Serana, this is up your alley. Judging by the quality of the soldiers we saw on the battlements, they’re bandits and back-alley mercenaries not worth a real sellsword’s shit. We’ll keep them occupied outside.”

The Dragonborn nodded. “I’ll see you on the other side, my Jarl. Try not to die. Harrald and Hemming sound like idiots.”

Lia gave a short sharp laugh. “You have no damned idea.”

She smiled and entered the tunnel.

“How in Oblivion’s name did _she_ become Jarl?” Stalleo demanded of Iona.

“Ended a skooma operation that threatened the Rift’s economy, fed every beggar in town, donated generously to the Benevolence of Mara, assisted several citizens, found evidence that Maven Black-Briar was a traitor who conspired with the Empire to become Jarl, and bought Honeyside,” Iona answered serenely. “After Laila broke her neck in a fall – right in front of half the court, I might add – Lia was the natural choice according to Thanes Vulwulf and Bolli and the franklins near Riften.”

“And all I was looking for was a quiet life,” Lia said dryly.

“Where do you stand in the war?” Stalleo demanded.

“I’m neutral because we have vampires and dragons running around,” Lia admitted. “Ulfric, at least, has withdrawn certain troops as a sign of good faith. I’m waiting to see what the Empire will offer the Rift.”

“We owe it to Talos to fight for him!” Stalleo protested.

“My worship is given primarily to Kyne and Zenithar,” Lia told him. “If you have a problem with that, you’re welcome to take your huscarls and go to Windhelm. I’ll choose where I stand when I’m damned well ready and not before.”

She turned to face the castle. “Let’s see if I can persuade Brurid to talk.”

Brurid was not, it seemed, willing to talk. His hired thugs were willing to launch arrows, stones, crude spears and a couple of ice spikes at her though. Marcurio responded with Destruction spells of his own that left three smoking corpses on the battlements. The bandits retreated, swearing, and then started screaming as Serana emerged from the keep.

When the gates opened, Mjoll and Iona took point, and Lia followed with her guards and Marcurio close behind. A burly lout in mage robes groaned in horror before crumbling to dust.

“Necromancy!” gasped Stalleo behind her. “Vile necromancy!”

“I’m guessing that was Brurid.” Lia looked around the courtyard. “Serana, any survivors?”

“No.” The vampire sighed, rubbing her pale cheek and leaving soot behind. “I saw three dead civilians in the basement. Stalleo, I’m sorry.”

“My Thane, don’t,” Rollo said suddenly. “Don’t-“

Lia was suddenly shoved forward, something ice-cold skidding across her back, and there was an explosion just above her. Dazed and confused, she heard scuffling and swearing and the casting of Destruction magic.

“That, Nord, was perhaps one of the stupidest things you could have ever done,” Setareh said just before darkness took Lia.

…

“Stalleo was a good man,” Mjoll said unhappily as Marcurio Healed Lia’s wounds. “I can only assume the loss of his family unhinged him enough to attack the Jarl.”

“No, I think he was weighing up the option beforehand,” Iona disagreed. “I was expecting him to challenge her though, not attack from behind. It’s my fault.”

“We all screwed up,” Lia said weakly from the bed. “I could have been a little more tactful.”

“Once he knew you weren’t a fan of the Stormcloaks, he’d have challenged you,” Marcurio observed. “So, who’s the Redguard vampire? I don’t think she’s a friend of Serana’s.”

“My name is Setareh and I am no friend to Serana’s father,” the handsome woman with the long, twisted locks of black hair and a marked resemblance to Lia replied. “But more importantly, she is my granddaughter. That is why I was unhappy with Stalleo.”

“Can vampires even love?” Mjoll asked before she could stop herself.

“I was turned against my will,” Setareh told her with the same candour Lia often displayed. “If I die as a vampire, I will most likely to go to Coldharbour. Could you say, Lioness, that you wouldn’t try to make the best of a bad situation if the other option was damnation?”

“I…” Mjoll sighed. “I couldn’t say. I adventured for honour, not coin, and I have always tried to do the right thing. But I couldn’t say. Some would say better one soul damned than a thousand souls dead.”

“I’ve heard the priests of Tu’whacca in Hammerfell can cure vampirism,” Marcurio said, looking between Setareh and Serana. “Uh, not that I’m dropping hints, but…”

“Having one vampire in my court publicly is bad enough, even if she’s the Dragonborn,” Lia said hoarsely from the bed. “If Harrald or Hemming find out I have connections to two, they’ll get all the moral imperative they need to remove me from the Mist Throne. We might be able to pass off Gran as a friend of Serana’s if necessary…”

“You have the life of my granddaughter in your hands,” Setareh finished, her amber eyes boring into Mjoll, Iona and Marcurio. “I hope you won’t betray that trust. It will end poorly for you.”

Mjoll would have been more offended if Setareh hadn’t literally seen a Thane of the Rift try to stab his rightful Jarl in the back. “I might occasionally question Lia’s choices, but she is my Jarl, and she has done more for the Rift than any Jarl in living memory. I will remain as a voice of conscience in her court, if she’ll have me.”

“That’s good, because I’m giving you Treva’s Watch as Thane of the Rift,” Lia said quietly. “I’d considered Faldar’s Tooth, but…”

“I didn’t mean to set it on fire _that_ much,” Serana protested. “I… well… I didn’t even know what Yol meant.”

“Mara’s tits, I don’t want to know,” Lia said wearily.

“Lia, stop taking the gods’ names in vain!” Setareh exclaimed in outrage.

Mjoll began to laugh. She couldn’t help it. Becoming Thane of the Rift and meeting a pious grandmother of a vampire was just too much strangeness in one day. But everyone else joined in, even Setareh herself, and somehow she knew it would be okay.

There was goodness inside everyone, even vampires. Except most of the Thieves. They were just criminal scum. But even they deserved the chance to be better, if possible.

She’d just have to show Riften the way.


	11. Respecting the Gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, slavery and mentions of child sexual abuse, rape/non-con, imprisonment and torture.

“I have to climb all those stairs?” Serana asked in dismay as she looked up at the Throat of the World.

“I don’t think the Greybeards – who are all Tongues so powerful they’re reportedly gagged – would appreciate you in vampire form,” Lia observed dryly. “Besides, Kyne gave the Nords the Thu’um, and they tell me this is a major Kynaran pilgrimage site. You should respect Her, if nothing else.”

“This from the woman whose grandmother is chiding her for blasphemy every five minutes,” Iona said with a laugh.

Lia rolled her eyes. “Ha ha, very funny. I need to find the village hetman and introduce myself.”

The village leader was a sour-faced woman named Temba Wide-Arm who complained about bears ruining the lumber around here and demanded the Jarl do something about it. So Lia dispatched the guards who’d come with her to Treva’s Watch to the two bear lairs near Ivarstead, set up in the Vilemyr Inn’s common room, and listened to the innkeeper talk about the haunted tomb literally just behind the local farm. “Serana?” the Jarl asked, turning to her. “Old tombs often have Dragonish inscriptions. Do you want to sort it out now or after High Hrothgar?”

“Now,” Serana said firmly. She wasn’t keen on walking all seven thousand of those steps.

It turned out the ‘ghost’ was a Dunmer driven mad by a dubious potion and Willem, the innkeeper, gave her the sapphire dragon claw to the tomb in gratitude. There was, as Lia said, a Word Wall that blazed with the ancient name of Kyne. Well, She _had_ breathed the Atmorani down from the sky at the Throat of the World. Serana fed the soul of the last dragon she killed into the Word and realised it was a way to make animals not attack her. Useful if she needed blood.

_“I’ve heard the priests of Tu’whacca have ways of curing vampirism,”_ Marcurio had said at Treva’s Watch. Serana had never considered the possibility of a cure, because she’d suffered so much for the powers she had. Lia gave her more tolerance than she expected and the Dawnguard weren’t attacking her… but she knew Harkon would eventually hear of the vampire Dragonborn and come to investigate. Curing it would set his plans back considerably. Finding suitable candidates for the rite that made a Daughter of Coldharbour was hard, to say the least.

_But I suffered so much…_

She drained a couple deer dry and delivered the carcasses to Willem. Even with a hood, the dawn-light was too bright for her eyes, and she was only too glad to seek out a room for the day. She hoped the Greybeards were night owls or it would be hard to train with them.

…

“I’ve no problem with selling to vampires, so long as you understand I’m not interested in becoming a thrall,” the handsome auburn-haired Nord assured Setareh. “This damned war’s pinching us all, lass. Between the pirates and the Stormcloaks…”

“And the Legion confiscating merchant inventory in the west,” she finished with a sigh. “Neither side is impressive at the political level, though I’ll grant the Empire is more stable.”

“I’m staying out of politics. Jarl Lia made that abundantly clear. The woman’s twice as scary as Maven, because she’s honest,” Brynjolf said quickly. “I’d rather not spend the rest of the Fourth Era in jail, thanks.”

“Understood. So how can we help each other?” Setareh smiled at him winningly. “I can acquire magical objects of a, shall we say, darker nature and trade whatever excess coin and jewels we come across in return for the alchemical ingredients and empty soul gems.”

“I’m game for anything but filling black soul gems,” Brynjolf agreed. “I draw the line at that. You want that, talk to Delvin, and he’ll probably just ask the Dark Brotherhood to do it.”

“I was under the impression they were all dead, because the Black Sacrament wasn’t working,” Setareh observed in some surprise. “Gods know I tried with my late and unlamented husband.”

“They have… _had_ no Listener,” Brynjolf said softly. “Now they do. Some lad named Cirroc. His daddy’s the Speaker of Dawnstar Sanctuary.”

“One way to follow the family business,” Setareh said amusedly. “I killed several people out there. Will the Guild object if I performed the Black Sacrament in the Ratway?”

“Just not in the Flagon, lass. It’s a matter of propriety.”

A quick visit to the cemetery produced the nightshade petals and the Ratway provided the other materials. It was a moderately unpleasant ritual but having the Dark Brotherhood on call would make Setareh’s life _much_ easier. Cirroc? That was a Redguard name. A good Forebear name.

“Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me,” Setareh chanted as she stabbed the effigy. “For the sins of the unworthy must be baptised in blood and fear.”

“Okay, I’ve seen a few things in the Ratway, but a Forebear noblewoman chanting the Black Sacrament’s a new one,” observed a low sensuous baritone practically on the heels of the chant. “What has the offending party done, sister? I give Forebears discounts.”

Setareh rose to her feet and spun around. Tall for a Redguard man, with olive-bronze skin seamed with scars, fine iron-grey braids and rare sea-blue eyes with a golden centre, the assassin rested an Akaviri bladed spear across his shoulder in deceptive negligence. His hand bore the complex tattoos of one sworn to Satakal and though his face was Forebear-round, his profile was Cyrod-aquiline.

“Don’t let Astrid know that,” muttered the lithe young man beside him, clad in red and black robes cut in the Sword-Saint style, his earth-brown eyes and sepia-hued skin indicative of eastern Forebear blood, probably Dragonstar and Elinhir. “She already hates us.”

“Pfft, Astrid’s irritated because her best customer took a swim in Windhelm harbour,” the older man said scornfully. “You’re the Listener and I’m the Speaker for Dawnstar. Aside from Arnbjorn, she really doesn’t have any support anymore.”

“You should be more respectful. Sithis doesn’t approve of dissension among His children,” chided his son.

“I am Setareh bint Sura-Char al-Dragonstar,” she admitted. These two children of Satakal deserved honesty.

The Speaker’s jaw dropped and even the Listener looked a little startled, the spirit sword – a blood-red bar of light – flashing quickly to his hand. “She’s serious,” the latter breathed. “She’s telling the truth.”

“Mother?” the Speaker – no, it was Rustem – asked in disbelief. “You’re alive?”

“No, I’m undead,” she corrected, blinking back bloody tears. “Oh my son, how I have missed you. I didn’t leave you by choice.”

“Well,” Cirroc, her grandson, observed quietly. “Who gets to tell Lia?”


	12. What Legacy Yours?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, misogyny, corpse desecration, slavery and mentions of child sexual abuse, rape/non-con, imprisonment, torture, religious conflict and war crimes. I'm sorry, Harkon is peak evil overlord.

“So, Ronthil, attached yourself to Setareh? Well, I suppose women have a soft spot for small helpless things.”

Orthjolf’s joke earned a roar of laughter from the other Nords in the court and even Harkon unbent enough to smile. Ronthil reminded himself that his blood was as good as Orthjolf’s and sipped sedately from his pewter flagon. The influx of new alchemical ingredients arranged by Setareh, delivered by an athletic Redguard man with hungry blue eyes, had allowed the making of blood potions by Feran and himself. Drinking from the vein might be more exciting but only the most cautious vampire didn’t waste _some_ blood when feeding. This was a more efficient way of nourishing one’s self, with far less muss and fuss.

“All of us, huscarl, have a place in Lord Harkon’s court that we should strive to fill correctly and competently,” Ronthil said after he’d swallowed his drink. “I would rather be content with what I have and fulfil my duties instead of overreach and prove myself incompetent.”

Orthjolf’s eyes narrowed but Vingalmo chuckled nastily. “Even the rodent knows you’re an idiot,” the Altmer observed.

“Now, now,” Harkon said lazily as Orthjolf’s expression darkened. “We have enough conflict outside our walls to be trying to kill each other within. Ronthil, did you hear anything from your supplier?”

_Plenty_ , the mer thought, but chose his words carefully. “Setareh made common cause with the Dark Brotherhood and the Thieves’ Guild in order to supply the greater part of our needs. As we have no need of gold and gauds but they do, it has been a profitable arrangement so far.”

“How practical of her,” Vingalmo noted.

“That’s why she’s my emissary to the courts of Skyrim,” Harkon reminded him. “Anything else, Ronthil? While this is useful, I need to know the political situation. Serana’s defection has set me back.”

“The Dawnguard continues to irritate Jarl Lia, though – probably because while she’s quite an adept politician, her hold – pun intended – on the Rift is not the strongest due to her being voted in over the objections of the two most likely heirs – she has allowed them to send an Orc named Durak to her court as an adviser,” Ronthil reported. “Isran is reportedly infuriated that she demand he pay taxes in good or services as the Dawnguard isn’t a recognised fighting or religious order.”

If Setareh had seen Harkon’s speculative expression, his lady would have torn out the Lord of the Vampires’ throat then and there. Ronthil was fairly certain she intended to replace Harkon as ruler of the court because she thought fulfilling this prophecy would get them all killed. He was also pretty sure Lia was a relative of Setareh’s, because there was a warmth to her tone when speaking of her, and she’d mentioned her son had married a Nord woman.

“I think,” Harkon said aloud, “I will eventually pay this Jarl Lia a visit myself. What better consort for the High King of Skyrim than a Jarl? Pity I can’t celebrate my nuptials by executing Valerica. _That_ would be a joy.”

Only years of abuse in Harkon’s court taught Ronthil to keep a helpful expression. This was bad. Very bad. And Setareh was far away doing something else.

He squared his shoulders. He had to do something. And the answers might be in Valerica’s old wing, gods help him.

…

“A blood potion that Ronthil developed,” Setareh said, handing a slip of paper to Serana. “The ingredients are readily acquired with the proliferation of bandits and other undesirables in this Hold. He tells me one every other day is enough to keep you fed, though it’s better to have one a day.”

“Wait? Is that a transfusion potion?” Marcurio, who’d been bribed into silence with a combination of becoming Wylandriah’s replacement as court wizard and promises of teaching from Serana, asked suddenly. “Tolfdir and Colette tried to make one from horker’s blood but it didn’t work out.”

“Probably because horker blood is more different than not to that of men and mer,” Setareh told him. “But if your recipe can be made from animal flesh instead of what this recipe calls for, it will be a more socially acceptable option.”

“I’ll send for the recipe. No doubt the College will appreciate a coherent note from Riften’s court wizard for a change.” Marcurio grinned. “How’d Wylandriah take the news?”

“I told her that I understood her research was far more important than my trifling needs and therefore she ought to return to the College and focus on them,” Lia said from the doorway, entering the court wizard’s office with Durak. “That and a hefty purse mollified her.”

“The blood potion is better than nothing but a cure would be best of all,” Durak growled. “Falion, in Morthal, knows a means of curing vampirism.”

“I remember Falion when he was an apprentice in the House of Tu’whacca,” Setareh noted. “Given what I’ve learned of magic since then, he probably pays off Molag Bal with another black soul. Is that truly the best option?”

“Plenty of scum who deserve damnation,” the Orc answered. “I’m guessing you’re a friend of Serana’s.”

“She’s from my father’s court,” Serana admitted cautiously. “Believe me when I say that even a good portion of my father’s followers think the Tyranny of the Sun is a bad idea.”

“But Harkon is just powerful enough – and has two subordinates who almost match him in strength – for any one of us to take on alone,” Setareh added. “I’m working to undermine him. But it will take time.”

“I can’t promise you’ll have that time,” Durak told her frankly. “Isran, Irkand and Egil are all for marching across Skyrim and burning Castle Volkihar to the ground.”

Setareh’s expression flickered slightly. “Marching across Skyrim with the force required to assault Harkon’s home would likely see half of them dead because the Jarls would believe you an enemy army.”

“That’s how we managed to get them to hold their horses,” Durak said dryly. “If you have things to do, vampire, I suggest you get them done quickly.”

“I’m _trying_.” Setareh pinched the bridge of her nose, a habit Lia inherited from her. “But I’m also doing my best to keep Harkon from finding out where his daughter is. If he does, he may very well leave the castle himself to fetch her…”

“Fine. Then we ambush him and kill him,” Durak answered.

“I need to go to Ustengrav to do something the Greybeards want me to,” Serana told the Orc. “Once that’s done, I can learn some more Shouts. I don’t want to fight my father – he’s my father, after all – but I know this prophecy needs to be stopped.”

“Seriously, consider getting yourself cured,” Durak said, not without sympathy. “That would be the biggest crimp in his plans you could achieve.”

“I’ll think about it,” she promised. “I see where you’re coming from but…”

After Setareh and Durak left, she went up to Lia’s office. The Jarl was poring over a number of tattered and burned books, most of which had an unknown script, and making notes. “Those look fun,” Serana said with a forced light laugh.

“It’s Akaviri – Bruniikke, as the dragons called them.” Lia rubbed her eyes. “My ancestors were once dragon-hunters and collected a lot of dragonlore. I’ve sent a message to some of my kin in the Reach. There’s an entire abandoned Akaviri temple that might have more information.”

Serana studied her, noting the circles under her eyes. “You’re not getting enough asleep.”

“I have internal troubles, two apocalypses and a civil war on my plate,” Lia pointed out. “I really don’t want to pressure you but getting a cure _would_ buy us more time. Association with even a Dragonborn vampire is giving moral ammunition to the Hold’s enemies.”

“You didn’t have to make me Thane,” Serana countered.

“No, I didn’t. I told you my political reasons but…” Lia sighed. “I know what it’s like to have really, really gods-awful parents, though yours make mine sound like Parent of the Era. I had to change my name and face to escape their legacy. You became a Daughter of Coldharbour because they expected you to, not because you wanted to. Just… consider it. As Dragonborn, you can command the world itself with the Thu’um. That’s something you never got from your parents but from Akatosh and Kynareth. Is your legacy going to be yours… or an extension of your parents’?”

Serana left her to her studies with something to consider.


	13. Doing Their Job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, slavery and mentions of imprisonment, rape/non-con and torture.

“Well, I suppose the past few weeks haven’t been an entire loss,” Feran observed after adding the last bit of powdered elder master vampire to the Bloodstone Chalice, the liquid within glowing with sullen red-black power. “The Chalice has been fully consecrated. Any who drink from it will have the full power of an Elder Vampire.”

“Excellent,” Harkon said with a broad smile. “We will now have the strength to find and reclaim Serana.”

“You know where she is?” Setareh asked softly.

“No, but the Bloodstone Chalice and Vingalmo’s scrying will allow me to locate her,” Harkon said smugly. “My daughter’s clever and I can understand why she wants to avoid her destiny. She might well die in the rite. But when I am Molag Bal’s regent on Nirn, vampirekind will remember her sacrifice.”

Harkon ruling over a clan of petty, self-serving vampires was bad enough. His court was no different to the one Setareh grew up. But Harkon as an Avatar of Molag Bal ruling over an entire race of empowered vampires would only lead to death and destruction, because even if half of men and mer had to die stopping it, the cost would be small. If leading the Dawnguard to Castle Volkihar and throwing open the gates herself was the only way to stop him, Setareh would strongly consider it. Better that than world’s end.

“It will take Vingalmo two weeks to gain enough thralls and soul gems for the blood-scrying,” Feran said mildly. “What of your planned journey?”

“That can wait. I’d rather be in the full flush of my power as to impress the lady.” Harkon smiled. “There are protocols one must follow when the High King visits a Jarl.”

“You’re planning a visit, Lord Harkon?” Setareh asked carefully, cautiously, liking the sound of this even less.

“Don’t worry, Setareh, I have no intentions of undermining your work,” Harkon said airily. “But your reports about this Lia give me hope she might suit for my future queen.”

“Lia could have resolved her civil unrest by wedding either Harrald or Hemming,” Setareh said carefully. “I’m not sure she’s interested in men like that. I certainly didn’t get that impression.”

“Were you hoping for a place by my side?” Harkon asked mildly.

“No, thank you. I’ve been married once. It’s not a state I’m looking to experience again,” Setareh answered dryly. “But I’ve found marriages work best when both parties are compatible.”

“She will be my consort if I so decide she is worthy,” Harkon said with that same deceptive mildness. “If not, I will brook no potential rival. She will join me or die.”

“As you wish,” Setareh said softly. “You are lord in this place, after all.”

When he left, Feran swore. “I think he’s going to try to make her a Daughter of Coldharbour. That would be-“

“His death sentence,” Setareh snarled without thinking. “If he touches my granddaughter, I’ll kill him myself.”

The Dunmer and the Redguard studied each other, hands twitching, ready to strike if the other one flinched the wrong way. Then Feran inclined his head. “I don’t get involved in the political side of things; neither me nor Garan, who was a Dres, do. We will follow whoever is ruler in this place.”

“That relieves me,” Setareh said slowly.

“My lady!” Ronthil bounced in, smiling broadly, as the tension ebbed away. “You’re back.”

“Yes. We’ve finished consecrating the Bloodstone Chalice,” Feran said, glancing at the altar. “Lord Harkon and Vingalmo intend to scry for Serana in about two weeks.”

“I might have an idea of where Serana is,” Ronthil continued brightly. “Has anyone thought to investigate Valerica’s old wing? Gods know the old queen was said to be a matchless sorceress and alchemist.”

“The traps there would eat you alive, Ronthil,” Feran said with all sincerity. “I’d hate to see you die as you’re finding some spine and initiative.”

“I will accompany him,” Setareh said quietly. Serana had dropped some hints in their last conversation. “Lord Harkon has commanded us to spare no effort in finding Serana. We would be obeying his orders.”

Feran nodded slowly. “Be careful. Vingalmo and Orthjolf would see you fall.”

“It will be as it will be.” Setareh touched her lips and heart. “Gods with you, Feran.”

…

“I was wondering when the General would get around to me,” Lia observed dryly as she leaned back in the Mist Throne. “He even sent his Legate Primus.”

“Well, after hearing Galmar Stone-Fist paid you a visit, he could hardly show you less honour,” Rikke Snow-Stone, still trim and muscular ten years after Lia had last seen her, remarked with equal dryness. “Making the Dragonborn your Thane was a very clever idea, Jarl Lia. The Empire could use clever Jarls like you.”

“If you haven’t noticed, we’re dealing with vampires and dragons. Even Ulfric’s put the civil war on hold so we can deal with greater existential threats,” Lia said calmly. “How are the Imperial Holds coping? I know pirates in the north and the Stormcloaks are hampering trade. Even Balgruuf’s feeling the pinch.”

Rikke shifted her grip on her ceremonial helmet, expression stoic as only a Legion veteran’s could be. “For the most part, the dragons seem content to roost on mountaintops and eat the odd cow, As for trade, we still have open routes to High Rock, so our belts aren’t as tight as they are in the Old Holds.”

“The Forsworn aren’t hampering caravans?” Lia asked with a raised eyebrow.

The Legate smiled thinly. “Every time a Legion caravan’s raided, we find the nearest Forsworn redoubt and kill the resident shaman, Briarheart and Hagraven. That’s diminished the raids considerably.”

“So even if it was a group of renegades, you do as Ulfric did during the Markarth Incident?” Lia asked in shock. “By the gods, that’s a violation of the Imperial Code?”

“Only in provinces that aren’t in rebellion,” Rikke said softly. “Skyrim is a province in rebellion. I hope we don’t have to use such tactics on Nords.”

“Elisif approves of this? Pardon me, but war crimes don’t win you friends.”

“Elisif does as she’s told,” Rikke said bluntly. “Not all Jarls understood necessity like you or Balgruuf. If you two are on our side…”

“You do know that half of the Old Holds’ resentment is from the Empire treating Skyrim like a puppet state instead of the literal backbone of the provinces that remain, right?” Lia asked, forcing her tone to calm. Gods, her kin in the hills. The Legion’s tactics would win them no friends among the Reachfolk.

Rikke closed her eyes. “Look, I know it isn’t perfect. If I had my say, I’d offer the crown to Balgruuf. But Tullius has to answer to the Emperor and the Elder Council and they want a docile Skyrim.”

“Which they won’t get by riling up the Forsworn or the moderate Nords,” Lia said sardonically. “If Ulfric wasn’t such an arsehole, he’d have a lot more allies than he does. That’s the only thing which has stopped the Stormcloaks from rolling across Skyrim like a stormfront.”

“I know,” Rikke said flatly, opening her eyes. “If you and Balgruuf-“

“We have _two literal apocalypses_ breathing down our fucking necks,” Lia grated. “I think Balgruuf has the right of it by being more worried about the dragons. I’m trying to sort out the vampire business while stopping the Dawnguard from staking the Last Dragonborn, who’s a Daughter of Coldharbour that hails from the days of Hoag Merkiller.”

She rose to her feet, stepped down from the throne, and began to pace. “Take this message to Tullius and I’ll send a similar one to Ulfric and Balgruuf. We need to discuss a truce until the dragons and the vampires are dealt with. I know the Emperor’s Nutcracker won’t understand the full import of Alduin’s return but you’re a Nord and a Shieldmaiden. It’s your job to make him understand.”

“Alduin has returned?” Rikke asked, her voice shaken.

“Talos _titty-fucking_ Dibella, what did they teach you at Yngvild? Big black dragon trashes Helgen. Dragons come back. It’s the prophecy of the Last Dragonborn, who’s embroiled in a vampire conflict. Don’t worry, she’s on the side of the world.” Lia turned to face Rikke. “We’ll meet at Jorrvaskr. I don’t think the Companions will mind and Whiterun’s central enough we can all get there safely. I’ll make sure Serana attends to make sure everyone behaves.”

“For a woman whose grip on the Mist Throne’s fairly shaky, you’re assuming a lot of authority,” Rikke said slowly. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

Lia pegged her with a grim stare. “The only Jarl in Skyrim apparently doing their job.”


	14. Land of the Living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, slavery and mentions of religious conflict, war crimes, child sexual abuse, rape/non-con, imprisonment and torture.

“I assume you’re here for a cure. Please, come in.”

Falion was a plain-faced Redguard of indeterminate age whose hands were tattooed with elaborate markings not unlike Setareh’s. Serana could only assume that it meant something to Redguards, though Lia didn’t have any. Maybe her being a Nord had something to do with it. But swathed in blue wool and his cottage smelling of horker stew, the sorcerer didn’t look like an adept of dark and dire magic.

She allowed Falion to usher her inside. Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone had offered to make her a Thane after the events at Morvath’s Lair and Ustengrav, but Serana declined citing commitments to Riften. Idgrod wasn’t offended, instead inclining her head and thanking her for dealing with the threats to her small isolated Hold… with a hint that a visit to Falion wouldn’t go astray.

“Thanks,” she said nervously. “I’m Serana.”

“The Dragonborn? Welcome to Morthal.” Falion led her to a small table with two seats. “Get sick of Isran and Irkand bitching at you? Those two could drive Mara to wrath.”

“I’ve managed to avoid them,” Serana told him. “I’ve mostly been dealing with Durak.”

“Durak’s a sensible mer, even by Orcish standards,” Falion observed. “It’s a pity he’s a death-sworn of Malacath. He’d stop the Dawnguard from making idiots of themselves.”

Serana managed a chuckle. “Jarl Lia’s managed to keep them muzzled. I think they’re offended she wants them to pay taxes.”

“Wonders never cease. If Idgrod didn’t need me here, I’d relocate to Riften.” Falion steepled his fingers. “I’m familiar with your father. Vingalmo tried to recruit me about fifteen years ago because he assumed I was a common necromancer. He backed off after I demonstrated some of the gifts Tu’whacca shares with His priests.”

“I’d have paid to see it.” Serana studied her long pale fingers. “Durak asked me to consider a cure because it’d ruin my father’s plans. Jarl Lia pointed out that I became a Daughter of Coldharbour because my parents wanted me to be and as the Dragonborn, I already have world-shaking power. It makes so much sense. But…”

“You suffered so much, you feel like you shouldn’t ‘waste’ it,” Falion finished sympathetically. “Being a Daughter of Coldharbour gives you awesome powers. I’m not familiar with the Voice, but I’m given to understand it is a primal but crude form of Aedric magic. Daedric and Aedric energies _can_ coexist in the same body, though the results can be… interesting. Something has to give. I had the opportunity to study a specimen once, one of the legendary Aurelii. Rustem, who is descended from Martin Septim and Aurelia Northstar, who became the Madgoddess aspect of Sheogorath. Irkand’s his brother.”

He poured himself some tea. “Now, the Septims were descended laterally from Talos after the Red Diamond War, but the Amulet of Kings conferred the dragon-blood on those Emperors by blessing of Akatosh. Until you, Martin Septim was considered the last Dragonborn in the truest sense, because it’s said he opened portals to Oblivion during the siege of Bruma with his Voice.”

“My father was descended from Ysgramor,” Serana said slowly. “The only Dragonborn like me we knew of was Miraak, and he perverted the power of the Dragon Priests.”

“I’ve heard he was a charmer, but most of the Dragon Priests were tyrants, even the best of them,” Falion said after a sip of tea. “Returning to the Aurelii and my study of Rustem, I found that his connection to Sithis – which we Redguards know to be an aspect of Satakal, the God of Everything – balanced the Aedric and Daedric energies with minimal side effects. I say _minimal_ : Rustem was technically a little bit mad and his brother Irkand is much the same, but for both of them it’s situational. One avoids authority and commitment like the plague and the other becomes a stone-cold psychopath in combat.”

“Well, if they’re descended from Sheogorath…” Serana pointed out.

“Technically, she wasn’t the Madgoddess when she had Julius Martin so far as I know, but in accepting her patronage the Aurelii opened themselves up to Daedric influence in a form of a pact…” Falion drank some more tea. “It’s sad I never got to meet Aurelia Callaina. She was of Kreathling ancestry and the Jarls of Falkreath have a clear line of descent from Wulfharth, the first Ysmir. It would have been interesting to see if the imbalance of energies in favour of Aedric had a beneficial or deleterious effect.”

“Okay, so let me understand this…” Serana chewed her lip. “You’re saying the Dragonborn business is Aedric?”

“As I understand it, you have the soul of an immortal, practically invulnerable engine of domination and destruction born of Akatosh’s power housed in a technically-mortal shell,” Falion told her. “You are descended from Molag Bal, but you were born with an Aedric spark. Something, eventually, will have to give and if you leave it too long, it may not be your choice.”

“Miraak called on the Woodland Man – Herma-Mora-“

“-And got dragged away to Apocrypha for his troubles. Sometimes, when the wind is right, you can hear him screaming among the withered bookshelves,” Falion finished dryly. “Miraak, to be frank, was a fucking idiot.”

“You’ve been to Apocrypha?” Serana asked in awe.

“I’ve travelled to a few planes of Oblivion. The Daedric Princes have never offered me anything worth my soul.”

Serana studied this man, who knew so much yet hadn’t compromised his soul, and realised she envied him. The prospect of madness or torment didn’t appeal to her and the idea of Molag Bal getting his hands on a dragon soul…

“I’ll do it.”

Falion smiled. “Do you have a filled black soul gem? Molag Bal, thank Tu’whacca, is easily bribed.”

She did, from the necromancers who were pillaging the Greybeards’ sacred burial vault, and as the sky turned steel-grey with predawn Falion led her to a circle of stones.

“I call upon Oblivion Realms, the home of those who are not our ancestors. Answer my plea! As in death there is new life, in Oblivion there is a beginning for that which has ended. I call forth that power! Accept the soul that we offer! As the sun ends the night, end the darkness of this soul, return life to the creature you see before you!”

As the sun filled her vision, Serana cried out in pain, the light searing through her every vein. When her gaze cleared, she stared down at pale skin with a rosy flush, the colours and scent so much the richer than she recalled.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Falion said quietly. “I pray that you begin to heal.”

So did she. But… this was hers. Not the gods’. Not her parents’. But hers and hers alone.


	15. Blood and Bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, slavery, imprisonment and mentions of cannibalism, child sexual abuse, rape/non-con, torture and war crimes.

“Harkon destroyed these gardens after Valerica disappeared,” Ronthil observed as he and Setareh emerged from the hidden passage. “Fura said they’d been beautiful beyond description.”

The Redguard touched a deathbell flower with gentle fingers. “It is in Harkon’s nature to take that which is beautiful and destroy it. For that, as much as anything else, he deserves to die.”

It took them a few minutes to find the missing pieces of the moon-dial and put them into place, which opened up another section of the ruined passage. Harkon had utterly destroyed the passages to Valerica’s wing of the castle and sown it with traps. Nothing they couldn’t handle between them – and Ronthil was amazed at how stronger he felt these days. Before they’d come here, both of them had drunk from the Bloodstone Chalice, and its power still pumped through his veins.

Eventually they reached Valerica’s stillroom and library. Ronthil rubbed his hands with glee when he saw the breadth of the still intact tomes, components and ingredients. “Oh, what I could do here…” he said reverently.

“When Harkon is done, you may use this place as you desire,” Setareh said gently. “I was never more than adequate in the stillroom, a fact which dismayed my mother to no end.”

“Fura said Valerica had been a necromancer – you know the Hjaalmarchers remember her as ‘the Death-Witch’ and that she was of the Dead-Tree clan and technically a Reacher, as they used to rule most of Haafingar, Falkreath and Hjaalmarch?” Ronthil asked as he studied the set of interlocking stone rings in the centre of the library.

“My granddaughter told me that her other grandmother, Catriona, was a Hagraven of the Reachfolk,” Setareh answered, examining a bowl of finely ground bone meal curiously. “We saw some of the western hill-clans in Dragonstar and Elinhir. They worship the Aedra and the Daedra as gods of the right and left hands. A strange people, to say the least, but Lia tells me they aren’t the monsters both Stormcloak and Imperial paint them.”

“I’m a Bosmer and we follow the Meat Mandate,” Ronthil pointed out. “If more people ate what they killed, there’d be a lot less war.”

“War is sometimes necessary but it is always a waste,” Setareh sighed.

“Amen. If the Dominion hadn’t dragged me out of Valenwood to serve as a scout in the Great War…” Ronthil sighed and picked up a bowl of purified void salts. “I wouldn’t have been traded by Ancano to Vingalmo and come here.”

Setareh went very still. “Who is this Ancano?”

“He’s a researcher who specialises in ancient artefacts. The Thalmor, his Altmer faction, rule the Aldmeri Dominion and want to destroy the world so we all become gods again.” Ronthil nodded to the pedestal with the stone bowl in it. “That’s the key to… whatever this is. And knowing that Valerica was an alchemist, I suspect the way to unlock it will be in the components.”

He was unsurprised to see that the bone meal, void salts and soul gem shards were the key ingredients but the stone rings only glowed with pale violet light. Then Setareh pursed her lips and slashed her palm with her Redguard dagger to add blood to the mix.

The rings began to spin and open up into stairs that led into more of the pale violet light, which reeked of necromantic energy. “Yff’re’s bones!” Ronthil cursed. “I… I think I know where this goes. Valerica’s either the greatest necromancer who ever lived or she is the craziest.”

“Where does it go to?” Setareh asked, her lips white.

“The Soul Cairn. Where soul-trapped souls go to die.”

…

Madanach inhaled deeply, savouring the juniper-scented air that was peculiar to the Druadachs, and smiled as he heard the scrape of claw against stone. “I bet you set a new record for the trip from Glenmoril to here.”

“I’ve never been laggard in giving the Ard Ri due respect,” Catriona said as she joined him, the rose-and-amber sky of dawn casting a warm glow over her pale skin. “Besides, I received some intelligence from the Rift.”

“Ulfric had an unlikely accident involving three salmon, one of those ghastly wrought-iron fences in Windhelm and a bottle of mead?” Madanach asked hopefully.

The Hagraven laughed. “No. But I can put that in a request when I do my next Black Sacrament. The Night Mother’s chosen a new Listener.”

“Praise the Dread Father. Now we hold Kolskeggr, we can pay the children of Sithis to remove a few problems. Unless that ex-Shieldmaiden is still running things?” Madanach may have been imprisoned for twenty-three years but he wasn’t ignorant of what was going on in his kingdom or the lowlands of Skyrim.

“I don’t know. There might be a schism in the Dark Brotherhood if she doesn’t recognise the Listener’s authority. Young lad, maybe about eighteen or twenty, and Redguard of all things.” Catriona plaited the fringe on her grey robes. “But that’s not the news. Remember how I was exiled for six years for my failure during the Markarth Incident?”

“Catri, I don’t blame you for that,” Madanach told her gently. “It’s a hard thing for a mother to kill her child, even one as monstrous as the Stormsword. My kingdom was lost anyway. If not Ulfric, some Legionary would have piked my head at the gates…”

The Hagraven sighed. “It wasn’t a complete loss, Madanach. I went to Glenmoril for a bit and blood-scried my descendants. I used a bit of distance-magic to make sure Ulfric’s kids had a heart… and found out the girl from Sigdrifa’s first marriage survived and was in County Bruma.”

“Kaie said you’d disappeared for a bit. You went to Bruma?” Madanach tilted his head curiously.

“I did. Callaina was being raised by the Imperial Workhouse and treated like shit because she was the daughter of traitors. Sigdrifa didn’t even send someone for her and every time her da tried, his proxies were blocked.” Catriona’s expression hardened. “I did what I could for her. Taught her some of our ways. If I could have brought her to Glenmoril, I would have.”

“I know. I’m guessing this intelligence involves her.”

Catriona grinned. “I got it from Bryn mac Gillam. Boy’s a high-ranking Thief these days and my Lia, as she goes by now, nailed his arse to the wall. He was quite impressed by how neatly she did it, actually.”

“Gillam always did admire a worthy enemy. So your girl’s in the Guild? Good to see she escaped the Cyrods.”

Catriona’s grin widened. “Oh no. My Lia was assigned as a tax official to Helgen and when that dragon levelled the place – sadly, Ulfric survived that – she stole the Legion’s tax chest, went to Riften and changed her face and name.”

Madanach laughed evilly. “Some of those taxes came from our folk! Good for her!”

“It gets better. She did a few things around the Rift, got herself made a Thane… and after revealing Maven Black-Briar to be a traitor and Jarl Laila tripping over a step and breaking a neck… Guess who’s the new Jarl of the Rift?”

“It is a very great pity there wasn’t a face-sculptor in Markarth,” Madanach said wistfully. “I could live with a Nord as Jarl of the Reach if she were our blood and knew at least some of our ways.”

“She’s invited me to become Matriarch of Darklight Coven, which had a recent, uh, leadership dispute that saw half of them dead and the daughter of the old Hag living in Riften as a refugee,” Catriona continued. “Lia’s confirmed the Legion _was_ targeting our redoubts after any caravan raid, whether or not the redoubt was innocent. Rikke admitted as such when trying to talk her into the Imperial camp.”

Madanach’s lip curled back into a snarl. “Fucking Shieldmaidens. They’re all the same.”

“Aye,” Catriona agreed sadly. “Lia will help where she can, of course.”

“Become Matriarch. If I can save some portion of our people in the Rift, then I’ll take it.” Madanach pursed his lips. “Find Lia’s greatest enemies and deliver their heads to her. I know you’ll do it anyway, but make it a formal gift from the Ard Ri. Maybe we could marry Argis or Bryn to her…”

“We might have more of a chance than you think,” Catriona continued. “Lia’s calling for truce talks at Jorrvaskr, with Ulfric and Tullius there. We won’t be able to kill the bastards…”

“But we can have our say,” Madanach finished. “Formal invitation or are we just showing up?”

“Informal invitation. Lia couldn’t send out a formal one because she didn’t know where to find you.” Catriona sighed. “We can’t let on we’re related. She’s convinced the Empire that Aurelia Callaina’s dead.”

“I can’t fault her. Well, I’ve heard Whiterun’s a beautiful place.” Madanach looked over the sunlit peaks of his homeland. “Send something suitably expensive to Balgruuf. He always treated with us fairly when I ruled from Markarth. Let it not be said the Ard Ri of the Reach is discourteous to potential allies.”

Catriona smiled. “Free passage for all traders carrying the Horse Banner?”

“No, make it something tangible. Dripping gold and gems. Nords have gaudy tastes.” Madanach snapped his fingers. “Torcs! Gold and rubies for Balgruuf, since he’s a fussy bastard, and gold and… hmm… does your granddaughter have any favourite gemstones?”

“She used to like turquoises, because they matched her eyes, but I think she’s changed her eye-colour now,” Catriona answered. “Which is a shame, because they were a beautiful blue-green.”

“Then make it diamonds.” Madanach smiled crookedly. “If Riften ever runs short of money, she can pawn it.”

He looked across his kingdom again. “If dragons have returned and these are the end of days… then let me spend those days as the true Ard Ri once more.”


	16. Pay Evil Unto Evil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of slavery, child sexual abuse, rape/non-con, torture and imprisonment. So yeah, even the most charitable depiction of Valerica makes her look like a sentient dumpster fire, and you best believe Setareh is pissed off on a personal level.

_So this is damnation… and yet reportedly not as horrible as Coldharbour or the Deadlands. It is horrible enough for me._

Setareh’s grip was tight on Ronthil’s, taking heart from the Bosmer’s presence, as they explored the Soul Cairn from one horizon to the next. Veins of shimmering violet fire filled soul gems while returning a horse’s skull to a cairn at the behest of his owner produced a ghostly steed. A Dunmer who bore the name of a Morrowind saint asked them to find the pages of his life story, which were scattered throughout the place, and the strange curled husks bought spell tomes that Ronthil eagerly read from a trapped merchant. There were skeletons and wraiths and horrible things beyond description, all under the command of the Keepers, lieutenants to the ‘Ideal Masters’ who ruled this place.

Eventually, they found Valerica imprisoned in one of the many buildings, an Elder Scroll gleaming gold behind her. Garan had noted that Harkon once owned two, one disappearing with Serana and the other Valerica. Well, they found one, the mother if not the daughter.

“So Harkon has sent two of his minions to fulfil his damned prophecy,” sneered Valerica from behind her prison wall. “Good luck in reaching me, for the Ideal Masters have bound me here, guarded by a fearsome creature indeed.”

Setareh smiled and Harkon’s wife flinched. “Were it up to me, daughter of damnation, I would breach the prison just to drag your soul quivering from your body for what you and Harkon wrought upon your own daughter. As a mother and grandmother, how could you? Your own daughter, sent to Molag Bal as a sacrifice!”

“I gave my daughter the greatest gift a mother could – immortality! And now Harkon would take her life to become a horror upon the world!” Valerica retorted in what sounded like anguish. “You, who serve him, accuse me of being a monster?”

“I’m actually planning to kill Harkon,” Setareh said harshly. “He turns his eyes to my granddaughter, who is Jarl in the Rift by her own merits. Your daughter Serana is Thane to her and Dragonborn besides.”

“Dragonborn? Like… like… Miraak?” Valerica asked shakily. “No! My Serana is no monster!”

“That she most surely is not,” Setareh agreed softly. “For she has a heart.”

She placed her hand on her heart and chose her words carefully. “If you assist us, I swear by the gods of Yokuda-that-was I will free you and not lift hand to harm you. We have a mutual enemy and descendants to save. I can set my personal feelings aside for that.”

Valerica nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t wish Harkon on my worst enemy. I can trust that pledge. To free me, you must defeat the three Keepers and then the last guardian… a dragon named Durnehviir. His name means ‘Curse-Never-Dying’, because he is as bound to this place as any Boneman.”

“I had a many-times-great-grandfather who slew a dragon,” Setareh said with more confidence than she felt. “He was just a man with a sword. Ronthil and I are both skilled mages. I’m sure he’ll be easy to deal with.”

They turned and walked away. A good thing they knew where to find the Keepers already.

“My lady, I appreciate your faith in my skills, but I’m no great knight to defeat a dragon for you,” the Bosmer said anxiously.

“My husband was a Blade and they were descended from the great dragon-hunters of Akavir,” Setareh told him. “Most of the stories I heard boiled down to a few simple things: break the wings, use lightning to sap the dragon’s magicka, and have fighters ready to flank him. You can Conjure Atronachs and other beasties, aye?”

“Oh yes!” Ronthil looked more eager. “That, I can do.”

“Then we are already victorious.”

It proved rather more difficult than that, Keepers and a ghostly executioner being tougher than the wraiths running around, but eventually they returned to Valerica’s prison. The barrier was gone and the vampire was flexing her hands.

“We should take the Elder Scroll with us,” she said. “It might deter-“

No, it did not deter Durnehviir, who was a blue dragon that seemed half-rotted. Setareh briefly reflected on the fact that maybe they should have invited Serana along before shouting out the advice she’d given to Ronthil beforehand. Even with Valerica’s assistance, it was a difficult battle, and she was depleted by its end.

“Stay your weapons. I would speak with you,” the dragon said as Setareh drew her enchanted dagger to make an end of it.

“I will listen,” she promised. “I make no other offers.”

“Cursed, not dead. Doomed to exist in this form for eternity. Trapped between laas and dinok, between life and death,” Durnehviir said meditatively. “I heard that you know one like Miraak – a joor, mortal, with a dragon’s soul.”

“I do. Her name is Serana and she is the sun to my poor candle,” Setareh told him wryly.

“It is wise to show deference to the more powerful,” the dragon observed. “My claws have rendered the flesh of innumerable foes, but I have never once been felled on the field of battle. I therefor honour-name you ‘Qahnaarin,’ or Vanquisher in your tongue.”

“Dragons sound like sensible creatures,” Ronthil noted.

“There was a time when I called Tamriel my home. But those days have long since passed. The dovah roamed the skies, vying for their small slices of territory that resulted in immense and ultimately fatal battles.” Durnehviir sighed and shook his head. “Unlike some of my brethren, I sought solutions outside the norm in order to maintain my superiority. I began to explore what the dovah call ‘Alok-Dilon,’ the ancient forbidden art that you call necromancy.”

“You were fool to trust the Ideal Masters,” Valerica said scornfully.

“The Ideal Masters assured me that my powers would be unmatched, that I could raise legions of the undead. In return, I was to serve them as a Keeper until the death of the one who calls herself Valerica.” Durnehviir fixed the Daughter of Coldharbour with a jaundiced eye. “I discovered too late that the Ideal Masters favour deception over honour and had no intention of releasing me from my binding. They had control of my mind, but fortunately they couldn't possess my soul.”

“What would you ask of us?” Setareh asked gently, moved to pity. This dragon was an honourable enemy. “I can bring the Dragonborn here to… free you… if that is your wish.”

“That is not necessary, though your offer is honourable. It is natural for the strong to devour the weak and I proved weak. I have been here too long, Qahnaarin. The Soul Cairn has become a part of what I am. I could never fully call Tamriel my home again, or I would surely perish…” He sighed. “My soul might be too tainted to be taken by the Dragonborn.”

“Pity,” Valerica observed. “It would bring me great joy to see you devoured, dragon.”

“Could you please go get the Elder Scroll?” Setareh asked politely. “It seems to know you best.”

“Very well.” Valerica stalked off and Ronthil spat in her wake. Setareh could well sympathise with the sentiment.

“That one is near as treacherous as the Ideal Masters,” Durnehviir said grimly.

“I have plans for her… unless you’d like to bite her head off?” Setareh offered.

“Tempting, but no. I am bound to not harm her.” Durnehviir sighed. “My name is a Shout. I will teach you its meaning so that you may pass it to the Dragonborn – Sah-Rah-Nah. Phantom-God-Fury. A good dovah name. I can still serve her in return for a few hours soaring the skies of Keizaal… of Skyrim.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled three jagged words that she immediately understood, written as they were in the energy of the dead and damned. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Serana will cherish this.”

“I seek only to escape my prison for a few hours,” Durnehviir said. “For this, Qahnaarin, I thank you.”

He flew away as Valerica returned with the Elder Scroll. “Good riddance,” she said. “I will accompany you to the entrance. It may not be safe to return to Nirn until you manage to overthrow Harkon… and Serana takes her place as rightful Queen of the Vampires.”

“Lead the way,” Setareh said softly.

They were somewhere past Jiub when Ronthil assumed Vampire Lord form and raked his claws across Valerica’s knees and spine, hamstringing and crippling her in one attack. When he went to land the finishing blow, Setareh held up her hand and drew her dagger.

“You swore by your gods you wouldn’t lift a hand to harm me,” Valerica rasped, raising a hand with curling fingers.

Ronthil stepped on them with his clawed feet and the Daughter screamed.

“I said ‘hand’. I said nothing about my dagger,” Setareh countered as she knelt by her. “You are too evil and too stupid and too powerful to live. But I will not waste your blood, not when it will serve me and Ronthil well.”

Valerica had just enough time to scream in denial before Setareh cut her throat and caught her arterial blood in a specially enchanted flask. With this, she and Ronthil would be as powerful and potent as Harkon… she hoped.

If not, it would at least put them on the level of Vingalmo and Orthjolf. Setareh wanted to be rid of them before she ever laid a hand on Harkon.

As the last of her lifeblood left her body, Valerica’s soul filled an empty black soul gem, and the remnants of her spirit appeared not too far away. “You betrayed me!” she shrieked.

“Perhaps,” Setareh admitted. “I prefer to think of it as paying evil unto evil. Enjoy your immortality… for what it’s worth.”

Valerica screamed as Setareh took Ronthil’s hand and they left the Soul Cairn with the Elder Scroll. Behind them, they heard the clatter of incoming Bonemen. The Ideal Masters would get the payment they were promised so long ago. As it should be.


	17. The Mist-Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, genocide and war crimes.

“First a vampire and now a Hagraven,” Unmid Snow-Shod observed as he entered Lia’s office. “What’s next, my Jarl, a Daedric Prince joining the court?”

“Catriona and I have had dealings before,” Lia told him, setting aside the half-burned Akaviri book. “She won’t stuff you into a soul gem without a good cause.”

“Ulfric and Tullius must be having hysterics by now,” the captain of the guard said dryly.

“Good. That will make them easier to deal with at the talks.”

The former huscarl laughed as he left. Unlike the other Snow-Shods, he wasn’t as invested in the Stormcloak rebellion, though he did mourn his sister who died in the Legion’s attempted carnificina at Darkwater Crossing. Tullius really did live up to his name as the Emperor’s Hammer, because he was using heavy-handed atrocity to try and bring Skyrim into line.

Lia smiled wearily at her other grandmother. “Welcome to the Rift.”

“You’re welcome, lass. Look at you, all Jarly and important.” Catriona’s smile was amused. “Madanach sends you a gift. Three, actually.”

She upended a sack, the heads of Hemming and Harrald rolling out. “One was hiding out at Shor’s Watchtower and the other at Rift Watchtower,” she told a surprised Lia. “I hope it helps you some.”

Lia breathed through her mouth, not keen on the scent of putrefaction from the rotting heads. “It does,” she said, breathing shallowly. “Thanks, Granma.”

“You’re welcome.” The Hagraven produced a small leather bag. “All Reach royals – and their allies – wear these. It’s a torc. You confirmed what Madanach feared about those Legion raids.”

The torc was four strands of twisted gold capped with facet-cut diamonds the size of a child’s palm, shining with multiple enchantments. “Mara’s tits,” Lia breathed. “I could sell that and pay the Hold’s guards for three months.”

“Madanach did say you could pawn it if there was need, but I most sincerely hope you don’t. Gold and diamonds come from Kolskeggr in the Reach and I enchanted it with the souls of those two idiots whose heads I delivered,” Catriona told her as Lia picked up the torc. “Four enchantments – magic resistance, poison resistance, combined magicka-replenishment and Destruction reduction, and complete immunity to diseases.”

Lia’s hands shook as she donned the torc. “Those are the traditional Fourfold Blessings of the Ard Ri…”

“Madanach wished you’d come to power in the Reach, because a Nord Jarl of our blood would be better than a Silver-Blood one,” Catriona said softly. “It might be my coven at Darklight and the influx of refugee Reachers you’re about to get will be the remnant of our people that survives.”

“Serana, the Dragonborn – daughter of Harkon the Cruel and Valerica the Death-Witch – tells me there were once ten kings of the Reach and four of them lived in Skyrim,” Lia said softly. “The Sea-King in the north, the Dead-King in the east, the Stone-King in the west, and the Tree-King in the south.”

“Nine Kings for each of the nine great stars in the sky and one above them all,” Catriona confirmed. “We sent a torc to Balgruuf too, though that’s more of a bribe – but he did acknowledge and treat Madanach well during his reign in Markarth. The days of the Longhouse Emperors are gone and will never return. Madanach knows this might well be the end of days and if so, he will live them out as Ard Ri.”

“I would acknowledge him as such if it were possible,” Lia said sadly. “But the lowlanders would never allow it and even having the Dragonborn as a Thane wouldn’t stop both Stormcloaks and Legionaries invading my Hold in earnest.”

Catriona shook her head. “We know. We’ve got plans for the Mournful Throne. _But you spoke for us_ , Lia. Madanach has been made aware of the political situation and we’ll be coming to the talks. But he’s recognising you as one of the Nine, even if it’s one of nine Jarls in the lowlands. You are, to the Reachfolk, the Mist-Queen. Some part of our people will survive in the Rift because of you. That much the High Matriarch confirmed herself.”

“I will shelter who I can,” Lia promised softly. “I hope it will be enough.”

“It will be. That too has been seen.”

…

“Wonderful. The Dragonborn’s gotten us lost in the Pale.”

Serana reminded herself that Delphine was a Blade, a protector of the Dragonborn and a hunter of dragons, and that now she was mortal she was a lot frailer. It would have been satisfying to neck-lift the woman and slam her against a pine tree, but that wasn’t happening, and now they were lost near a group of ruins over which Legionaries and Stormcloaks fought.

“If _you_ hadn’t stolen the Horn, I wouldn’t be lost with you in the Pale,” she reminded the whip-lean, fox-faced Breton.

“You didn’t have to come with me after I gave you the horn,” Delphine answered with maddening calm.

“Yes, I did, because you’d have dragged me into some other mess,” Serana retorted. “Now-“

A stray arrow whizzed past her face and buried itself in Delphine’s throat. The Breton Blade sagged to the ground, eyes already glazing. Serana shouldn’t feel that relieved. Delphine hadn’t revealed everything she knew.

Irritated, Serana cast Ebonyflesh and burst from the pine copse, breathing out a long stream of fire that caught Legionary and Stormcloak alike. Then she raised the strongest of the Legionaries, who wore heavier armour than the Stormcloaks, and sent him against the surviving fighters even as icy spears came from her other hand. Those idiots had tried to kill her and nearly doomed the world.

After searching the remaining bodies, she found a note that spoke of the legendary (and lost) Jagged Crown. How in Oblivion’s name had these idiots lost the Jagged Crown to begin with? No wonder Skyrim was going down the drain.

Since she was here, Serana decided to collect the damned thing. Lia could make something useful of it. Politics was her province after all.

More soldiers and several draugr later, Serana took the Jagged Crown from King Borgas’ corpse, learned a new Word for a time Shout, and looted the place bare. Now she needed to eat, sleep and drink – and all of that cost coin.

Wrapping the Jagged Crown in a cloth, then sticking it in a leather bag with knotted strings and putting that in her pack, Serana headed for the city of Whiterun. She really should buy some new mage robes, as her leather armour screamed ‘vampire’, and she wasn’t one of those anymore. Jarl Balgruuf was neutral, she’d heard.

No wonder Lia was exasperated with both sides of the civil war, because they were commanded by idiots.


	18. Plans and Plots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, slavery and mentions of imprisonment, torture, religious conflict and war crimes.

“Well, the College of Winterhold finally got around to answering my letter,” Sorine announced at breakfast. “Urag tells me there’s references to the Tyranny of the Sun in some Falmer tomes he’s just managed to translate, the most important of which is the repeated mention of not one but three Elder Scrolls.”

“An Orc translating Falmer?” Irkand asked in some surprise. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

Egil shook his head. Irkand could be remarkably blind in some ways. “Serana was buried with one, was she not?”

“Yes.” Sorine buttered some toast. “Harkon’s emergence is linked to the return of the dragons because Urag made mention of _that_ too.”

“A Dragonborn Daughter of Coldharbour. That may be the stuff of nightmares, even if she hasn’t _yet_ started to chow down on people,” Isran rumbled.

“She isn’t about to,” Durak said from the door, accompanied by a pale, beautiful Nord woman with braided black hair and the rounded form of Jarl Lia, who wore a magnificent thick open-ended necklace of diamonds and gold. “Serana got herself cured.”

“Not because I cared what you lot thought but because having an Aedric soul and Daedric associations tended to carry the potential for madness and other inconveniences,” observed the Dragonborn sardonically. “Like the Aurelii, for instance.”

Egil swallowed a laugh at the frosty expression on Irkand’s face. In battle, the man _was_ mad, but thankfully it was situational.

“So, we’ve confirmed that Elder Scrolls and dragons are confirmed to be involved in this prophecy,” Sorine said, though her eyes glittered in amusement. “You’ve got one. Now we need two more.”

“Sure, I’ll just ask the Guild to break into the White-Gold Tower and steal us some,” Lia said dryly.

Tolan, sitting next to Egil, stirred. “I’ve heard rumours you’re permitting a Hagraven to set up shop at Darklight Tower-“

“True,” Lia admitted. “There was already a coven there and Catriona managed to live in Markarth for five years during Madanach’s reign without sacrificing anyone. I don’t really care who the citizens of the Rift worship so long as they aren’t murdering law-abiding citizens and innocents.”

“Catriona was Madanach’s right-hand Hagraven… and you’re wearing a Reacher torc,” Sorine noted. “You have some interesting connections, Jarl Lia.”

The Jarl of the Rift had ties to the Forsworn. It certainly explained her lack of patience with the Stormcloaks and the Legion; even Egil admitted that what his father had done in Markarth was cruel. But as to what it bode for the future…

“My mother had the Blood Scroll and I carry the Sun Scroll,” Serana said, taking a seat and helping herself to some bread. “As to the third…”

“We’d need a Moth Priest,” Irkand said quietly. “Given that word has likely reached Cyrodiil by now you have an Elder Scroll, they’ll send Dexion Evicus, an old friend of mine.”

“Then I’ll let you handle it,” Serana said, biting into the bread. “Gods, your cook is amazing. I’d forgotten how delicious fresh bread was…”

Isran smiled. “You’re welcome. I picked it up because-“

“-Because you’re a miserable old bastard and only Irkand can put up with you for more’n five minutes,” laughed Gunmar. “And we’ve all tasted Irkand’s cooking.”

Lia leaned against the doorway. “Have you dealt with the bandit enclaves yet? I still expect my taxes. And don’t even mention the torc. The torc was a gift from the Ard Ri Madanach because I called out the Legion on its war crimes in the Reach.”

“Are you sure you’re not part-Cyrod? You’re certainly obsessed with coin,” groused Isran.

“Catriona dealt with Harrald and Hemming, but thanks to Anuriel’s embezzling, Maven’s tax fraud and Laila’s extravagance, I still have a large hole in my treasury,” Lia answered mildly.

“We’ve been blooding our recruits on the bandits, Jarl Lia,” Gunmar assured her. “Shoulda seen their faces when I launched an armoured troll at them at Nilheim.”

“Armoured… troll?” Lia asked slowly.

“Aye. I’m a devotee of Kyne and She gave me a knack for taming critters.” Gunmar grinned. “They’re more personable than Isran, at least.”

“And more charming than Irkand,” drawled Tolan.

“I don’t hear any of you complaining about our social skills when we’re killing bloodsuckers,” Isran rumbled dangerously.

“Because you don’t need many to kill them,” Sorine told them.

Irkand’s eyes narrowed as he studied Lia. Egil followed his line of sight and realised that there were some similarities, beyond skin and eye colour, between them. Didn’t Irkand have family? He said most of them were dead or fugitives from Imperial justice.

“Let me know when you’ve found Dexion,” Lia said softly. “I’ve got the feeling Harkon won’t be stalled for long despite Serana getting herself cured.”

“Agreed,” Serana said grimly. “There are ways to raise a female vampire to the equivalent of a Daughter of Coldharbour… and none of them are better than the initial rite.”

…

“Valerica was hiding in the Soul Cairn all this time! And you took her head!”

“Ronthil did most of the work,” Setareh said modestly, nodding to the rodentlike little Bosmer. “I’d sworn not to lift a hand to her. That didn’t include my dagger, but if Ronthil hadn’t crippled her beforehand, the fight would have been a lot uglier.”

Harkon nodded absently. They’d drunk from the Bloodstone Chalice without permission… but the benefits of doing so outweighed his outrage. Technically speaking, Setareh had the right as Thane to act independently for the good of the Hold, and if she chose to raise Ronthil along with her… Well, he supposed the mer was useful.

“You’ve proven yourself worthy of the trust I placed in you,” Harkon said silkily. “Did Valerica give any clues as to where the other two Elder Scrolls necessary for the prophecy were?”

“No. But I do know the Moth Priests of Cyrodiil would be able to find them,” Setareh answered. “I’ve heard the Dragonborn has one and that means the Empire will dispatch a Moth Priest to collect it. They think they have the right to them all because they once ruled Tamriel.”

Harkon nodded. “Very well. Go and find this Priest. We’re running low on thralls anyway.”

Setareh touched her lips, bowed, and exited the chapel with Ronthil in tow.

Harkon smiled. Good help was _so_ hard to find. He just had to make sure Setareh never learned his plans for her. If Serana wasn’t recovered, the prophecy would still be fulfilled. He’d covered all his avenues centuries ago.


	19. Planting Seeds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, slavery and mentions of trauma, torture, imprisonment, genocide, cannibalism and war crimes. I mean, Setareh’s a protagonist and she’s kind of an okay person, but she is a vampire in Harkon’s court and Harkon's court is several shades of horrible.

Setareh had gone to find a Moth Priest and left Ronthil to watch the court in her absence. It was harder to cringe as he once did, so he settled for a respectful servility, which most of the senior members in the court took as their due. Feran and Garan treated him as something other than an annoyance while Fura and Hestla showed something resembling civility. Namasur, a Redguard, treated Setareh as just below Harkon himself and was deferential to Ronthil as her right hand while Modhna, a Reachwoman, was a little less curt than usual. Malkus, the sole Orc, had been sent off on a mission by Harkon and hadn’t interacted much with either Setareh or Ronthil beforehand. But the biggest change in relationships involved Rargal Thrallmaster, who’d once treated him as a jumped-up thrall. Now he was courteous and happy to cooperate.

“Ronthil,” he said at the feasting table one day. “I notice you prefer blood potions to feeding from a thrall. Does nothing meet your taste? I can acquire something else if you’d like.”

The Bosmer spread his hands with a polite smile. In life, Rargal had been Harkon’s Steward, back when the Nords did keep thralls. He was old enough to not anger needlessly. “I find the potions more efficient and to my taste. My lady makes them from meat caught in the wild. Being Bosmer, there’s definitely an improvement in the quality of the blood.”

He dared not admit that he hated feeding from thralls because it brought back bad memories. That would be a show of weakness and the court destroyed the weak.

Rargal nodded thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of that. Wild game always did taste better when I was mortal. I always put it down to the excitement of the hunt flavouring my taste.”

“Probably because a fit soldier in his prime is generally better meat than a sickly thrall,” Ronthil pointed out. “I admit I still dine on the occasional bandit when I leave the castle for supplies. Guards would be missed, but a deserter…”

“Oh yes. One must be careful.” Rargal rubbed his chin. “You made a wise alliance with Setareh. Feran and Garan treated you like a dog and Vingalmo worse than one.”

“My lady was the first to recognise my blood being as good as most of the clan’s,” Ronthil admitted. “I wouldn’t _dream_ of measuring myself against Lord Harkon or the high officials of his court…”

“You helped kill Valerica. I can feel the difference in your power.” Rargal’s smile was wry. “Orthjolf and Vingalmo squabble like dogs over a bone for Lord Harkon’s favour, whereas the rest of us choose to fill a niche and secure our places within the court. I find it better to be constantly useful in small ways over promising something extravagant and failing spectacularly.”

“Amen,” Ronthil agreed. “The way Orthjolf and Vingalmo fight, I sometimes wonder…”

He trailed off, looking concerned, and Rargal’s eyebrows rose. “What?” the Thrallmaster asked.

“I could be wrong,” Ronthil said hesitantly. “The way those two carry on, it reminds me of the Thalmor agents back in the Dominion. They’d fight among themselves, suck up to their superiors… and backstab all and sundry for a little more power. Look at how they sacrificed Stalf and Salonia!”

“Weren’t you the one who told those two to go after Setareh?” Rargal asked pointedly.

“Of course I did. I was doing whatever I was told then and we both know they’d ordered those two to do something about my lady!” Ronthil protested indignantly. “My only independent action was to encourage them to work together for the good of the court!”

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to cast aspersions,” Rargal said hastily. “But… do you really think Orthjolf and Vingalmo would betray the court? They’d betray Lord Harkon himself?”

“Vingalmo, without a doubt,” Ronthil told him candidly. “Orthjolf might be working to safeguard Lord Harkon’s interests as his huscarl. I don’t claim to understand the Nord character that well, but I do know that huscarls are supposed to be undyingly loyal to their lords.”

Rargal nodded thoughtfully. “Orthjolf _is_ loyal. His was the hand that cut down every sacrifice Lord Harkon made to our master Molag Bal. Huscarls have to be able to play politics, as must a Jarl’s Steward.”

“I’ll admit my opinion of Vingalmo’s a bit prejudiced because he was the one who bought me from Ancano,” Ronthil admitted with a sigh. “But honestly, the only difference between him and the Thalmor are a couple thousand years.”

“Aldmer or Altmer, they’re all scheming bastards,” Rargal agreed. “The Chimer weren’t much better and gods, you should have met the Dwemer!”

“We Bosmer tend to keep to ourselves,” Ronthil agreed. “Oh, we have our politics, but it’s mostly provincial. It’s hard to sustain a deadly decadent court where everyone has to hunt and the trees migrate every few days.”

“And you might become someone else’s dinner!” Rargal laughed.

Ronthil laughed along with him. “That does tend to polish one’s manners.”

Rargal slapped him on the back. “Hestla turning you was the best thing she ever did.”

“I don’t recommend telling her that,” Ronthil advised dryly. “She plans to be the new Harbinger of Jorrvaskr, wherever that is, when Lord Harkon becomes High King.”

“She was a Companion, cast out when they decided to become werewolves,” Rargal said cryptically. “The heroes of Jorrvaskr choosing to become mongrel beasts when they could be gods among men… Ysgramor is shaking his head in disgust, I’m certain of it.”

Ronthil didn’t know much about Nord mythology but he was fairly certain the legendary hero would object to Nords becoming vampire _or_ werewolf.

“So, I was thinking of adding some alchemical ingredients to our blood potions to improve the flavour and utility of them,” he said as Rargal poured himself some more wine. “I mean, a bit of nightshade and viridi fungus could make Destruction magic more potent…”

He’d planted the seed. Time to let it grow.


	20. Moth to Flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, imprisonment and mentions of child abuse, torture, war crimes, slavery and genocide. Now for the mother (pun intended) of awkward meetings…

“You didn’t have to come with me,” Irkand told Serana as they approached Dragon Bridge.

“I did. I have an Elder Scroll and some thoughts as to where the Blood Scroll can be found,” the ex-vampire responded. “Given that there’s at least one active plot to undermine my father going on, I felt I should be on hand to avoid you accidentally stabbing someone.”

“Is there anyone in Harkon’s court worth saving?” he countered.

“Well, Setareh seems pretty decent. She’s very much involved in her grandchildren’s lives and was absolutely livid when she found out what my parents did.” Serana sighed. “Given I spent years making the best of a bad situation, I can’t fault her for doing the same.”

“I think my mother’s name was Setareh,” Irkand said with a sigh.

“Yeah, I saw the resemblance immediately,” Serana said offhandedly. “She’s been trying to avoid most of the Dawnguard because she’d rather not kill her son.”

Irkand tripped over a rock and fell on his face.

“I’m… guessing you didn’t know,” Serana said slowly as she helped him up, using Healing to mend the scrapes.

“I was told she died in childbirth!” Irkand whispered in shock.

Serana glanced away. “Lia tells me that Arius betrayed her. From what she’s said, your father was a right mad bastard.”

Irkand inhaled deeply, trying to force himself to calmness. Finding out the niece he’d mourned for dead was the Jarl of the Rift was startling enough; he was puckishly proud of her for outwitting the Elder Council. But this… this was something else.

“Lia’s right on that account,” he said tightly. “The only thing I regret about Cloud Ruler Temple’s fall is that I couldn’t get there in time to save the Blades from him. I was… otherwise occupied.”

“Your family’s probably the second-worst family in history after mine,” Serana observed sympathetically. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d… well, maybe figured it out. You’re as smart as Lia.”

“Not at politics or reading people.” Irkand inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “When you see her, tell her to flee Harkon’s court. When the Dawnguard comes, and we will, there can be no mercy for anyone caught there. Not after what Harkon plans.”

“That’s… reasonable. No one would miss most of my father’s senior courtiers and Setareh’s probably won over the lesser ones.” Serana gave him a rueful smile. “I suggest you not be around when the Dark Brotherhood kill Titus Mede. That Emperor sounds almost as bad as my father.”

“He’s been forced to harshness,” Irkand said grimly. “Between the Great War, my father’s rebellion and those damned Stormcloaks…”

“He’s due what’s coming to him,” Serana said calmly. “Now let’s go. I can’t count on the person sent to retrieve Dexion being Setareh.”

They found the bloodied remains and ruined carriage about five minutes out of the small village on the bridge itself. Irkand swore, forgetting himself in the heat of the moment, but Serana cupped both hands around a pale blue ball of energy that produced a line going east.

“He’s not far away,” she said. “So… do we go in stealthily? I’m a lot more fragile these days.”

“Yes. Stealth is best.” Irkand forced his emotions into that little box within himself that kept him focused during a combat situation. “Let us be done with this.”

Dexion was held at a nearby ruin that Serana identified as Reacher in origin, already half-enthralled by an Orcish vampire. The wretched creature was so engrossed in his task that he missed the pair killing his minions, his gargoyle and every other security measure in the place, only noticing them about three seconds before Irkand pulled him back by the hair, spinning him to face away from the three humans, and ramming his ebony stiletto straight into his heart so that the blood loss was minimal. As strong as the monster was, Irkand had the leverage and the strength to hold him in place until the death rattle sounded, and then the use of Sun’s Fire made sure of him.

“Any regret I have about getting cured is well and truly gone if you’d have come after me,” Serana said shakily.

“I was trained to kill a renegade Dragonborn if need be,” Irkand informed her tonelessly. “So yes, I likely would have come after you.”

By the time Irkand’s coldness (a temporary madness, Sister Mercy of the Benevolence of Mara told him during his convalescence after the Battle of the Red Ring) had passed, Serana had snapped Dexion out of the thraldom by slapping his face and withstanding his feeble attempts to hit her back. She might consider herself more frail these days, but she was still a tall, fit Nord woman in her prime whereas Dexion was in his sixties and while wiry-strong, his age was definitely catching up to him.

“What in Akatosh’s name is going on?” Dexion demanded wearily. “The last thing I recall was the bridge…”

“Old friend, I know where to find an Elder Scroll or two,” Irkand told him, allowing the warmth of his friendship with the man to thaw out the last assassin’s iciness from his soul. “Sadly, at least one of them is in the hands of a vampire who’d trying to end the world.”

“Tyranny of the Sun?” Dexion asked immediately, the sharpness returning to his eyes. “My guards?”

“Dead,” Irkand said with a sigh. “Serana and I rescued you just in time.”

Dexion shuddered. “May the gods rest their souls. Please, can we leave this place?”

It was sunset as they exited the redoubt, the sky still ruddy gold shading into violet as a creature out of nightmare landed before them, crimson tendrils spreading across corpse-grey skin to reveal a handsome Redguard woman with red-brown skin and long twisted locks of ebon-black hair. “I’m guessing if you three are walking out, Malkus didn’t,” she said in a low husky contralto.

“Setareh,” Serana greeted with a relieved smile. “I was a little worried that my father might have found you out.”

“That is the risk of any plot,” Irkand’s mother said softly. “But sometimes, when the ruler is mad or bad, you must do a lesser evil to prevent a greater one.”

“Did you betray my father?” Irkand demanded. “Did some plot of yours make him worse?”

“Irkand…” Her amber eyes widened. “You look healthy and well.”

“What is it about the Aurelii that wherever they go, drama follows them?” Dexion asked of the air.

Serana grabbed Irkand by the shoulder. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she warned. “Your mother deserves the chance to explain herself.”

“When I agreed to marry Arius, I knew he was a Septim, and my grandfather Sura-Char thought it would be a good thing for Hammerfell to have a Forebear empress,” Setareh said quietly. “When I saw how mad he was, I realised how bad an idea him on the Ruby Throne was, and so I made plans. Was it a betrayal? Yes. But the swiftness with which his Blades moved tells me he’d planned to be rid of me once he had his heir and spare. Or perhaps it was his paranoia.”

“You yourself said you’d have killed Arius to save the other Blades,” Serana observed. “That makes you your mother’s son, Irkand.”

He closed his eyes, wishing he’d stayed cold. He didn’t need this emotion, not here, not in front of a vampire who claimed to be his mother. But the resemblance was undeniable. She even had a similarly deep voice to Lia and Rustem. Irkand had inherited his father’s tenor.

“I don’t expect forgiveness,” Setareh continued. “I could have killed Balgeir sooner and done something, I suppose. I lost many years with my sons and grandchildren. Harkon would destroy you all – and because I convinced him Lia was useful alive, he’s considering making her his consort. After what I saw it did to Valerica and the monster she became – if monster she hadn’t been – I would see him dead for that alone.”

Serana gasped, releasing Irkand. “You found my mother?”

“Yes.” Setareh sighed. “She had no intention of cooperating with me and Ronthil. She nearly got us killed in the Soul Cairn. She had every intention of betraying an honourable enemy. I won’t swear to it personally, because what I knew of her had me ready to strike her down myself, but Ronthil suspected she might well have killed us both to escape Harkon.”

“You killed her and took her power.” It was a statement, not a question, dragged from Serana’s throat. Irkand found himself pitying the ex-vampire.

“Ronthil crippled her and then we drained her dry,” Setareh admitted. “I have a Shout – and a dragon thrall – for you. Nords have wergild, yes? Consider this my wergild for your mother’s death.”

“My mother loved me in her way,” Serana said bitterly. “Now I’ll never have the chance to find out why she did what she did.”

“As a mother and grandmother, her love was as monstrous as her soul,” Setareh said with a sigh. “You may hate me as you wish, Serana, and no doubt it is justified. But don’t mourn your mother for being a good woman, for she was not, and do not consider her a good mother, for she was not.”

“It takes one to know one,” Irkand told her flatly. “I won’t lift a hand to you. But I’d prefer I never saw you again.”

“Given I’m helping Lia when and where I can, that may not be possible,” Setareh answered.

“Accusing each other of all and sundry won’t change the past,” Dexion said testily.

“You’re right,” Serana agreed flatly. “Thanks to my parents, I don’t even know what normal is, and that’s one of the reasons why I get on so well with Lia. She’s my sister from another mister, as the Nords say.”

She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “I’m angry, Setareh. But I know what my mother was like and how bad my father’s court can be. How corrupting the power of Molag Bal is. I have no more remorse over being cured because even the nicest vampire is still a monster. I’m Dragonborn and I will shape the world with my Voice. But I will do it as a mortal.”

Irkand turned to help Dexion, unable to trust his words. Serana had summed up the situation quite well. The Madgoddess’ influence, however well-meant, had wreaked havoc on the Aurelii. He’d sworn himself to Arkay and the Mortals’ God had given him some measure of compassion for others. Look at Rustem – arrogant, indifferent to others and an unfettered killer. A true servant of Sithis.

Setareh spoke three Words that glowed and handed over the Elder Scroll she’d carried gingerly. “I will return to Harkon’s court and save what I can,” she finally said. “He’s going to scry for you soon and realise you’re cured. That means I’m on a timetable.”

“I… Thanks, Setareh,” Serana said with a sigh. “I know you’re doing the best you can.”

“Irkand… I will make sure I need not fight your friends,” Setareh told him sadly. “Do not look for me at Castle Volkihar, for I will be gone by then, and I won’t raise a hand to my son or his beloved. It is the only gift you’d accept from me.”

Before he could say anything, she assumed Vampire Lord and took to the skies, disappearing into the blackness between the stars.

Irkand didn’t even realise he was crying until Dexion gave him an awkward side-hug. He let his friend embrace him, crying into his shoulder. It was the first time in years he’d wept… and when it was done, one emotional wound of his no longer festered.


	21. Family Favours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, slavery and mentions of imprisonment, torture, child abuse and war crimes.

“You look like shit.”

Setareh managed a smile as she accepted a cup of blood from Rustem’s second, a black-haired Dunmer womer named Jenassa, and curled her hands around the pewter. It was even heated, which was a thoughtful touch.

“I met Irkand,” she admitted with a sigh after a sip. Fresh from the vein. If this came from one of the Dark Brothers, she appreciated the courtesy.

“That’d be enough to depress anyone,” said Nazir, a Crown from the Alik’r with his smooth clay-brown cheeks and resonant baritone. “I love me a hypocrite. The man’s a professional assassin but he thinks himself better than us because he works for Arkay.”

“He is still my son,” Setareh told him.

“Ts'oarelo,” he murmured. “I meant no insult.”

“None was taken and I wasn’t chiding you.” Setareh sipped from the cup. “Your courtesy does you credit.”

“We’ve got a vampire in our ranks, so we’ve learned to preserve blood from our victims,” Nazir said with impressive modesty. “It isn’t always safe for Babette to hunt.”

“The isolation?” Setareh asked.

“No. She was turned when she was ten.” Jenassa poured herself some mead. “She’s learned to adapt but there are situations where a child would be in danger.”

“When Harkon is dealt with, she’s welcome to visit my court,” Setareh offered. “Gods willing, that will be sooner rather than later.”

“Our Guild contacts told us something of this vampire prophecy,” Jenassa observed. “I noticed that one of our smaller contracts involved Hert and Hern, were vampires too.”

“Ah yes. I trust you received payment? I was in no hurry to return to Falkreath, given it is rather close to the place I was turned, but Harkon had given me the task of dealing with them.” Setareh studied the two Dark Siblings over the rim of her cup.

“We did.” Nazir smiled wryly. “If I’d known that was a contract for family of Family, I’d have insisted on a discount. It’s only fair after all.”

“I can pay full price,” Setareh pointed out.

“Family gets a discount.” Rustem, his naginata slung across his shoulder, entered the common room with Cirroc and a pale little Breton girl who had to be Babette. “Sorry for being late. I had to make sure Gabriella and Veezara were okay after everything went to Oblivion at the Falkreath Sanctuary.”

“How the fuck did the Penitus Oculatus get the password anyway?” Jenassa demanded.

“That Maro son of a bitch played Astrid like a fiddle,” Rustem said sourly. “If Gabriella and Veezara weren’t on a job, we’d have lost damned near everyone.”

“As it was we lost Festus and Arnbjorn,” Babette said sadly. “Astrid betrayed us. She spilled the entire plot.”

“She was tortured?” Setareh asked, handing her cup to the little girl. “Drink, child. I’m Rustem’s mother and Cirroc’s grandmother.”

“Thank you,” Babette said softly. “I lost my pet spider.”

“No. Astrid sold out the Gourmet plot to try and get the Listener killed so things would go back to normal – as she saw them,” Cirroc said grimly. “She’s explaining herself to Sithis and the Night Mother in the Void.”

“I apologise for not getting to her sooner,” Setareh told him with another sigh. “Between Harkon and everything else, I’m run off my feet. I’d intended to deal with her for you both…”

“That could have been awkward,” Rustem answered after downing half a bottle of ale. His tastes were a little common but Setareh wouldn’t judge her son for it. “Traitor or not, she was ours to deal with.”

“Speaking of stolen kills, who wants to tell Catriona she took two of ours?” asked Nazir. “She delivered Harrald and Hemming’s heads to Lia about a week ago.”

“Send a thank you note and some soul gems,” Cirroc suggested. “Glenmoril Coven acknowledges Sithis as the grandfather of Hircine.”

“So Sithis doesn’t mind?”

“There are some fights not worth picking. The High Matriarch of the Darklight Coven, one of the most powerful Hagravens in existence, cousin to Madanach of the Forsworn and maternal grandmother of the Jarl of the Rift is one of them,” Cirroc told her dryly.

“Ho _ly_ shit,” Nazir swore. “That woman sent the Hero-Twins running!”

“She’s Sigdrifa’s mother. My ex-wife inherited some of her better qualities from Catriona.” Rustem laid his naginata on the rack. “Welcome to the Sanctuary, Ma. Sorry it’s a bit of a wreck at the moment. We haven’t had the time to renovate the place.”

“You should see Castle Volkihar. What Harkon’s done to the place is criminal… and the Dawnguard will probably torch it when they invade. Which, given the Dragonborn is with them, will be sooner rather than later.” Setareh clasped her hands together. “I came, in part, for company after my younger son rejected me. But first and foremost, I was hoping you might know somewhere several vampires could find sanctuary from the Dawnguard. Flight might be a better option for dealing with Harkon than fighting.”

“You revealed yourself to Irkand? That wasn’t the brightest idea. He’s a Satakal-damned undead hunter who won’t let a little thing like family get in the way of his ‘duty’,” Rustem said bitterly. “I should have warned you-“

“Serana kept him from attacking. He told me to go because he wouldn’t fight me, but he wanted nothing to do with me because I planned to overthrow Arius.” Setareh managed a smile. “How he has a code of honour, I don’t know, but I am proud of him for it. He’s worked out what happened to Lia too.”

“There’s precious few keeps left in Skyrim,” Nazir said after drinking some mead. “I’m guessing you can’t ask Lia? I mean, she made a vampire a Thane and invited a Hagraven to the Rift…”

“No. She’s walking a fine line as it is. Hemming and Harrald were only her most obvious enemies.”

“Maybe a tomb?” suggested Babette. “I know it’s cliché but…”

“After Bloodlet…” Setareh paused, let her words trail off, then laughed. “I suppose after I killed Balgeir, I have the right to that place.”

“You killed Balgeir the Bloody? I’m impressed!” Babette said in awe.

“I also – admittedly with help – killed Valerica the Death-Witch,” Setareh said modestly.

“To quote Nazir, ‘ _holy shit_ ’,” Babette swore. “Why don’t you take on Harkon directly?”

“Because he still has Vingalmo and Orthjolf,” Setareh confessed ruefully. “Ronthil and I could probably take them, but Harkon would be forewarned and able to attack us when we’re weakened by the fight.”

“Never fight fair if you can help it,” Jenassa agreed with a chuckle.

Cirroc’s expression grew distant. “I have an idea. There’s a couple vampire artefacts that the Night Mother knows about. They wouldn’t do Babette much good but a Volkihar vampire…”

He told her where to find them and Setareh smiled. “Thank you, grandson. How much I repay you?”

When he answered, her smile became a grin. Yes, she could do that.


	22. A Dragon Did It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of slavery, imprisonment, genocide and war crimes.

_“The College of Winterhold,” Dexion said decisively. “If anyone knows where to find the Dragon Scroll, it will be there.”_

All her life, Serana had known Winterhold to be the second-oldest city in Skyrim, religious and political seat after Windhelm and Whiterun until the capital moved to Solitude, home of the Empire. She’d heard that the city fell from grace some decades ago. She didn’t expect it to be so literal, the ruins split in two by a chasm that separated College from a shabby cluster of cottages.

“Halt!” snapped a haughty tenor.

She turned around to face an Altmer in long black robes edged with gold. “It’s considered undiplomatic to halt a Thane on honest business,” she warned him.

“You, a Thane?” he laughed.

“Serana, Thane of the Rift,” Serana replied, trying to keep her temper in check. The complex welter of emotions from learning of Valerica’s death hadn’t been resolved, but time waited on no Dragonborn, not when her father plotted to blind the sun itself. “Who are you when you’re at home?”

“That’s the Last bloody Dragonborn, you fool of a goldskin!” snapped a blondish man in heavy bearskins. “Show some respect.”

The mer sneered. “As an official representative of the Aldmeri Dominion, I hereby put you under arrest for the crime of-“

Lia, Egil and a few others had told Serana of the elven coalition in the south that banned the worship of Talos, an incarnation of Ysmir, and the horrors they’d inflicted on the human kingdoms. Talos, while being ‘an utter bastard of a god’ to quote Lia, was Dragonborn like Serana – there’d been a few between Miraak and her, including a few ancestors of the Aurelii. The Hagraven Catriona had made the quip Serana couldn’t possibly be worse than Talos, even if she’d stayed a Daughter of Coldharbour.

So, Serana decided as she opened her mouth, this mer was probably up to no good and resisting him would be a service to Tamriel. “YOL TOOR!”

Altmer, it seemed, were flammable.

“Talos’ sacred nutsack,” swore the bearskin-clad man in awe. “Dragonborn, you are a true daughter of Skyrim.”

“I’ve had friends who lost family to those arseholes,” she said, kicking apart the ash. “It doesn’t mean I’ll march alongside the Stormcloaks. My allegiance is to Jarl Lia of the Rift.”

“Aye, we heard she called a Moot at Jorrvaskr,” the man observed. “I’m Kai Wet-Pommel, Stormcloak commander of Winterhold. That sorry son of a bitch was Ancano, a Thalmor Justicar that the College said was up to no good but they couldn’t do anything because he’d threatened some of their kin back in the Dominion. We dropped some hints about magical doings at Saarthal to get him out of the College so… well. I’d’ve liked to question him, but I can live with his death.”

“Sorry,” she apologised, chagrined. “He got me at… well. He was going to arrest me and I’ve heard what the Thalmor do to their prisoners.”

“Oh, there’ll be no problem. Korir might even offer you a reward for getting rid of him.” Kai’s grin was broad. “Since I doubt you’re here for the sightseeing, you’re off to join the College?”

“I need to consult with Urag, the librarian. I’m told he’s one of the greatest scholars in Skyrim,” Serana admitted. There was no need to inform Kai of the fact she needed a third Elder Scroll.

“The mages say so.” Kai shrugged. “Ulfric’s son Bjarni studies at the College. Says the Thu’um is magic and we’d be bloody idiots if we didn’t have a few mages of our own.”

“I’ve met Egil. I’m guessing intelligence runs in the family.” Serana smiled wryly. “Even if Egil’s a bit of an arse.”

“That’s right, you’re a vampire. Boy’s a Vigilant and they say the Hall got massacred by evil vampires. I didn’t know there was any other kind.” Kai led her towards a longhouse.

“I got cured. Apparently Aedric and Daedric powers don’t mix well.”

Korir was the Jarl of Winterhold, painfully dignified in his battered copper circlet and motheaten robes. Serana bowed to him slightly, as befitted a Thane, and offered a small leather-wrapped parcel. “A gift from my Jarl, Lia of the Rift, to you,” she said formally.

The auburn-bearded man cracked a smile. “And Skald calls the woman an upstart unworthy of the Mist Throne! I know she’s flattering me, but at least _someone’s_ willing to give me some respect around here.”

He took the parcel and unwrapped it to reveal a perfectly balanced blunt-ended dagger forged from Morrowind ebony and sheened with enchantments. “I know this is ebony but… I’ve never seen a dagger like this.”

“It’s called a tanto, the Akaviri dagger,” Serana explained. “Lia tells me it was the personal belt-knife of Martin Septim during the Oblivion Crisis. Given she counts Blades among her ancestry, I see no reason for her to lie.”

“So she’s no friend to the Dominion? Why won’t she march with Ulfric?” Korir asked, balancing the tanto on his fingers.

“Lia doesn’t think he has a plan beyond liberating Skyrim… and she thinks him a perpetrator of war crimes against Nord and Reachman alike. Between the carnificina and the massacre of innocent Reachfolk by the Legion, she’s not overly fond of Tullius either,” Serana told him candidly.

“So the rumour of her being Reach royalty is true?” Kai asked intently.

“You can ask her at the Moot in a few days,” Serana replied. “I’ll even travel down there with you once my business at the College is done.”

“You should stay away from the College,” Korir warned darkly.

“Given they have information on the dragons, that’d be counterproductive,” Serana said dryly.

“Jarl, she did us the great favour of killing Ancano with fire breath,” Kai reported as Korir frowned. “You know Bjarni Storm-Born warned us about him.”

“I’d prefer the entire College was gone,” Korir said grimly.

“I’m sure if we offered them a place in the Rift, they might relocate,” Serana suggested. “Jarl Lia is a competent sorceress herself and is always looking for ways to make her Hold more prosperous. I myself am adept in the Clever Craft and three Schools of sorcery.”

Korir spluttered in shock. “Magic – it’s evil!”

“And a sword can be evil in the wrong hands,” Serana said mildly. “Martin Septim was a mage and I’m told he was Dragonborn like me.”

The Jarl looked troubled. “I’ll… think on your words. You sound like Bjarni.”

“That’s all one can ask, Jarl Korir.”

Kai escorted her to the bridge across the chasm, where a female Altmer stood guard. “Faralda, this woman’s the Dragonborn,” he told her. “She set Ancano on fire.”

“I saw it from here,” the mer said amusedly. “That’s magic enough for me. Welcome to the College.”

“Will there be any trouble?” Serana asked as they crossed the bridge.

“We can tell Elenwen, the Ambassador, quite honestly that a dragon set him on fire,” Faralda assured her with a grin. “I mean, you have a dragon’s soul, right?”

“So the Greybeards tell me.”

“Then he died by dragon. What a shame.”

Despite the events of the past few days, Faralda startled Serana into a laugh, and she was still grinning as she entered the College.


	23. Night Terrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, attempted kidnapping and mentions of war crimes, religious conflict, genocide and imprisonment.

“I see the golden Thane’s failed.”

“Have I?” Setareh asked Vingalmo as she adjusted her robes after the change.

“You didn’t return with the Moth Priest,” the Altmer pointed out.

“No. But I know where Serana is.” She smiled coldly. “Where is Lord Harkon?”

“Where else but the chapel.” Vingalmo smiled and it was a cruel sickly thing. “You better hope the knowledge of Serana’s location saves you from the price of failure.”

Setareh ignored him, sweeping past the high table to enter the chapel.

Harkon was standing before the altar to Molag Bal, turning a small onyx statue over in his hands. “We couldn’t scry you for a few days,” he observed as she approached. “There was a darkness deeper than that of our Lord Bal’s.”

“My son and grandson serve Satakal, who some call Sithis,” Setareh admitted cautiously. “I was visiting my family… and laying the groundwork to deal with the more dangerous Stormcloaks and Imperials in the Skyrim civil war.”

“Ah. And you return without the Moth Priest?”

“Yes.” Setareh forced her face and voice to remain steady. “But I know where Serana is.”

Harkon turned, placing the statuette on the altar. “Where?”

“The College of Winterhold.” Setareh clasped her hands together to conceal their trembling. “I have it on good authority that she is like to the one called Miraak – Dragonborn.”

_“Serana?”_ Harkon asked in shock.

“Yes, Serana. She has a penchant for breathing fire on her enemies and…” Setareh paused for a moment. “The state of being Dragonborn has apparently made her no longer a Daughter of Coldharbour. The power of Akatosh overwhelmed the grace of Molag Bal, it seems. She does, from my own observation, look mortal now – as much a mortal as someone with a dragon’s soul can be.”

“You’ve spoken with her?” Harkon asked, his voice now soft and steady.

“I have.” Setareh’s expression turned grim. “Valerica succeeded in turning her against you. The fire-breathing Dragonborn has joined the Dawnguard. That, Lord Harkon, is why I couldn’t bring back the Moth Priest. She’d already retrieved him.”

The older vampire nodded. “I see. A Nord would have attempted to try regardless.”

“Lord Harkon, Redguards are much more sensible. If I had died trying, would you know of this? Not until she was Shouting down your door.”

Harkon nodded. “Of course. I will need to make a new Daughter-“

There was a scuffle out in the feasting hall, shouts of rage and pain. Harkon snarled and stalked outside. Cautiously, Setareh followed him.

Rargal and Hestla were holding Orthjolf back, the huscarl snarling in rage in his Vampire Lord form, while Feran attempted to stanch the bleeding wound in Vingalmo’s neck – and failing.

_“What in the name of Molag’s balls is going on here?”_ Harkon roared.

“He questioned your judgment, my Jarl!” Orthjolf protested. “He said you should execute Setareh because she failed!”

“It’s true, Lord Harkon,” Garan agreed grimly.

“What, that Vingalmo questioned my judgment or Setareh should be executed for failure?” Harkon asked harshly.

“The former, Lord Harkon.”

Harkon growled. “Yes, she failed, but she also revealed Serana has turned traitor. Orthjolf, since you’re so keen to shed blood, go to the College of Winterhold and bring me back her head.”

“Yes, my Jarl,” Orthjolf said as Rargal and Hestla released him.

“And someone drain Vingalmo’s body dry and throw it to the slaughterfish. In these days, the gods despise waste.”

“Yes, my Jarl,” Feran said quietly, abandoning his efforts to save the mer.

Harkon stalked off and Setareh allowed herself a surge of relief. But she knew she’d only diverted the danger temporarily. She might have to act sooner than she planned.

…

Lia was packing her bag for the trip to Whiterun when the balcony doors were wrenched open from the outside. She flung a firebolt at the black mass in the middle of the wreckage, briefly illuminating a corpse-grey horror from the nightmares of the Daedric Princes, before bolting for the door, screaming for the guards.

It was upon her before she so much as touched the handle, hauling her back with strong pale hands that were now human. “The guards won’t come,” a deep baritone said silkily. “I killed them all.”

Lia rammed her head back into the vampire’s face, hearing the ugly crunch of bone, and gripped those hands only to send Flames through her palms. He shrieked in pain, falling back, and she used Telekinesis to drag the Blade of the Rift to her – a simple steel sword with a flame enchantment. Laila’s gift to her last Thane and now the personal weapon of the Jarl of the Rift.

Another firebolt struck the vampire in the shoulder. He might have been a handsome man once, with those saturnine Nord features and beautiful voice, but now blood streamed from a broken nose and ugly raw burns surrounded his wrists. “I will enjoy giving you to Molag Bal!” he snarled.

“He’ll be too busy punishing you to worry about me,” Lia said hoarsely. “GUARDS!”

“The Jarl! To the Jarl! She calls for help!” yelled Mjoll from below.

With a final snarl, the vampire fled, taking off from the balcony just as Mjoll, Iona and Unmid burst into the room.

“Vampire,” Lia panted, dropping the Blade of the Rift. “Think… was… Harkon.”

“Get a healer and a cure disease potion!” Mjoll ordered Iona as she helped ease Lia back onto the bed.

Iona returned in short order with Egil, who was wearing nothing but his breeks. “Drink,” he ordered, thrusting the cure disease potion at her. “Skeever charcoal and mudcrab chitin. Tastes awful but is the strongest cure for diseases the Vigilants know.”

Lia obeyed, and yes, it tasted awful. But Egil placed his hands on her shoulders, warm golden light banishing the icy chill as chimes shimmered in the air. When it was over, she sagged in exhaustion, fear and relief.

“You’re as good as any priest in the temples,” Mjoll told Egil, sounding impressed.

“I only lack vows to become a Vigilant,” he replied modestly. “Keeper Carcette herself trained me in Restoration.”

The Lioness wrapped a fur wrap around Lia’s shoulders. “You’re certain it was Harkon himself?”

Lia nodded. “He looked like Serana, a bit, but colder and crueller and male.”

“You deprived him of his greatest weapon,” Egil said softly. “For such as Harkon, that would be intolerable.”

“I think… he…” Lia began to shiver in reaction.

“You have drive and a will to survive,” Egil continued. “If you hadn’t driven him off, he’d have tried to make you a Daughter of Coldharbour.”

Unmid went briefly to the door, spoke to a guard who’d just arrived, and swore softly. “Gate guards and door guards are dead,” he reported. “If Mjoll and I weren’t going over reports and Iona hadn’t been with Egil…”

“I’d be wishing for death,” Lia said hoarsely.

“Yes.” Iona raked back her hair. “My Jarl, I’m sorry I wasn’t guarding you. It was quiet and…”

“It’s… it’s… okay.” Lia’s shivers became shudders. “I…”

“Let Durak know,” Mjoll suggested gently. “Unmid, post more guards, have the dead ones taken to the Hall of the Dead. I’ll remain with the Jarl.”

And so she did.


	24. Target Practice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of child sexual abuse, imprisonment, slavery and torture.

Winterhold was plagued by a dragon and since she had a couple days to spare, Urag needing the time to find out what he knew on Elder Scrolls, Falmer and vampires, Serana headed to Mount Anthor accompanied by Bjarni Storm-Born, who was the heartier, more cheerful, definitely a throwback to the Atmorani in size and attitude brother to Egil, a Khajiit named J’zargo with a penchant for incendiary spells, a studious Nord named Onmund who was dedicated to reviving Skyrim’s magical tradition, and a Dunmer named Brelyna, heir to House Telvanni. All of them were competent mages with differing specialties – Bjarni came to learn defensive and Illusion magics that would assist a commander on the battlefield, J’zargo just wanted to learn all the Destruction spells and was already an Evoker in the School, Onmund knew all of the coastal Clever Craft magics and dabbled in Conjuration, and Brelyna was an Alterationist who appreciated the chance to study without pressure. When she was done with her father and Alduin, Serana was definitely going to come back. The College was everything she dreamed of.

“So, according to my father – who is the first Battle-Tongue in about two hundred years – dragons literally talk each other to death through Shouts,” Bjarni said as they hiked up the side of the mountain, muffled by enchanted equipment. “I’m guessing it’s just various flavours of ‘fuck you’ and ‘no, fuck you’ until someone dies and gets his soul sucked out.”

“So you’re saying that Ulfric disintegrated Torygg with a ‘fuck you’?” Onmund asked.

Bjarni winced. “Yeah. There was no honour in that duel. Kodlak went up one side of Father and down the other for it. Torygg had no way to defend himself against a hardened veteran with the Thu’um and he knew it. That’s why he carried a butter knife into the duel.”

“Torygg?” Serana asked. She’d heard the name before.

“The previous High King of Skyrim. Egil spent a couple years in his court as a hostage.” Bjarni sighed. “A Jarl can challenge the High King if he thinks he can do a better job and it’s one of the few fights you can’t get a huscarl to do for you. It was murder. Torygg had been raised in Cyrodiil as a ‘ward’ of the Emperor and so he didn’t know how to fight. But he wasn’t a milk drinker in the end. He died with a weapon in his hand and shamed my father for it.”

“Does your father know you think that?” Brelyna asked, wrapping her scarf around her face again.

“Yeah. He wasn’t bloody happy about it but the Old Holds don’t raise their kids to be milk drinkers who obey Ma and Da all the time.” He sighed again. “Something that disappointed my mother.”

There wasn’t much Serana could say to that, given her mother had died and her father was on his way to death, so she pointed up ahead. “Is that the dragon in the air?”

“Aye. Let me try something since he knows we’re here.” What followed was, in Serana’s opinion, the most profane and obscene sentence ever uttered in Dovahzul since the breathing down of the Nords by Kyne in the dawn-times. Bjarni left no Aedra or Daedra unmentioned, he implied several sexual acts that were biologically improbable, and informed the dragon that his ancestry back to Akatosh was rich in diversity but surprisingly lacking in dragons. It was a masterwork of obscenity and profanity and for a moment, she rather fancied the world stopped turning from the shock of it.

“How in Oblivion are you and Egil related?” she asked in disbelief.

“Egil was fostered to the Vigilance of Stendarr. They sent _me_ to the Companions of Jorrvaskr,” he answered with a grin.

In that ten-second exchange, the dragon had stopped flying and ploughed into the side of Mount Anthor, shaking down the snow that could have been an avalanche if Onmund hadn’t turned it aside with a blast of Telekinesis. Stunned by the fall, it was too easy to kill, and Serana found herself with the first Word of the Shout to summon Durnehviir and another Word for Ice Form.

“Well, that was easy,” J’zargo said in disappointment.

“Grab the bones and scales,” Serana advised, disappointed herself. “They’re worth a few septims.”

They returned to Winterhold about two hours after sunset and were crossing the bridge to the College with Faralda when something swooped out of the sky. Claws skidded across Serana’s back, shredding the Volkihar armour she hadn’t replaced and scratching her skin even under a hastily cast Ironflesh spell. She fell to her knees with a cry as the Vampire Lord took to the skies again, preparing to strike. It was probably Orthjolf.

“J’zargo sees the bat-thing,” the Khajiit reported. “Give him a second…”

Faralda gestured and the form of Orthjolf was lit up by a Magelight. “Target practice, anyone?”

“Build Khajiit a fire and they are warm for the night. Set Khajiit on fire and they are warm for the rest of their life,” J’zargo quipped as he dual-cast Fireball.

Struck by fire and sunlight and Turn Greater Undead, Orthjolf was, as the Khajiit observed, warm for the rest of his life. He crashed into the bridge ahead and Serana inhaled deeply, unleashing Fire Breath on him to make certain. Brelyna dropped a boulder on the charred remains just in case.

Bjarni pressed a Cure Disease potion into her hands and she drank it with a shudder. Onmund turned out to know some Healing spells and so Serana was able to limp back to her room in the Hall of Attainment on Faralda’s arm.

“Vampires usually aren’t that bold,” the Destruction Master said as she pulled down the blankets, a faint shimmer of heat coming from the wool in a practical use of her preferred School.

“That was Orthjolf, my father Harkon’s huscarl,” Serana explained as she pulled off her armour and donned a shift that Brelyna handed her. “I’m not a Daughter of Coldharbour anymore and I…”

“Harkon of Volkihar?” Faralda asked, eyes narrowed.

“The one and only. My mother entombed me to save me being used in a ritual…” Serana shivered despite the warmth of the sheets as she got into bed. “Setareh killed her.”

“Well, the College takes a very dim view of its students being attacked,” Faralda said severely. “Onmund’s sailed from one end of the coast to the other. If anyone knows how to find the legendary Castle Volkihar, he will, and I’ve been itching to practice some Master Destruction spells.”

“The Dawnguard are planning to…” Serana was suddenly drained, her eyelids heavy as lead.

“I’m sure there’ll be enough vampires for everything.” Faralda tucked her into bed. “Sleep. No vampire can cross the wards we’ve set up.”

Safe. For the first time in her life, she was _safe_. Serana fell asleep, safe and warm. A rare thing for the Dragonborn and even less so for one who’d been a Daughter of Coldharbour.


	25. A Quiet Exit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, misogyny, corpse desecration, slavery and mentions of torture, imprisonment, attempted kidnapping and child abuse.

Harkon wasn’t so handsome now, not with his half-burned face and charred wrists, a scowl distorting his features. The ancient vampire snarled curses both profane and obscene, promising a dire fate to the ungrateful bitch who turned down the offer of immortality and all the other Jarls of Skyrim. He would blind the sun and turn the province into a barren wasteland. The last time Garan had seen raving like this, it had been from a Dres Councillor in the waning days of the Tribunal, and that mer’s loss of sanity led to his fleeing of Morrowind. It was one thing to set oneself up as an overlord of humanity and merkind, ruling distantly and extracting tribute. But quite another to promise overt desolation that would unite the races of Tamriel against them all.

In less eloquent terms, to quote Hestla, Harkon of Clan Volkihar had gone completely and utterly bonkers.

Orthjolf and Vingalmo were dead. Ronthil, through his Guild contacts, had confirmed the former had irritated the College of Winterhold enough that they’d joined the Dawnguard’s crusade. Valerica was executed by Setareh’s hand, Malkus dead trying to retrieve a Moth Priest, Lokil slain by a couple Vigilants. Rargal cared not for rulership, much like Garan himself and Feran Sadri. Most of the low-ranking courtiers only wanted to feast endlessly, uncaring of the outside world. Serana was the Dragonborn, one who could literally breathe fire and now had an almighty grudge against all the clan. Things were looking grim for Clan Volkihar.

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised Setareh had given this much thought. He’d seen Ronthil’s surprisingly skilled ploys to destroy Stalf, Salonia and Vingalmo. The two were a dangerous combination, one who thought beyond the confines of Harkon’s castle and futile prophecy. But what could they do against a ‘holy crusade’?

After Harkon drained three thralls dry, downed a potion mixed by Feran, and thrown himself into his coffin in a drunken stupor, Ronthil called Feran, Garan, Hestla and Fura to the library, where Setareh waited with her hands clasped. Despite the strains of the past two days, the Redguard was turned out immaculately, her hair freshly twisted into thick strands capped with garnets.

“Between Harkon’s attack on a Jarl of Skyrim and Orthjolf’s attack on the Last Dragonborn, unwelcome attention has turned towards this castle,” Setareh began in her low husky voice. “I have given thought to this, since I realised Serana was the Dragonborn, and I recalled that Balgeir the Bloody’s old seat Bloodlet Throne stands empty.”

“Bullshit,” Hestla said bluntly. “You were planning to overthrow Harkon from day one of your arrival in court.”

“Well, yes,” was the candid response. “He is short-sighted, petty, cruel and astonishingly stupid, propped up by the loyalty of Orthjolf and the ambition of Vingalmo. I had made plans and carried them out with Ronthil’s assistance.”

Feran smiled crookedly. “You were playing well… until you failed to deliver the Moth Priest.”

“I never intended to deliver him,” Setareh told him. “The Dawnguard had two Elder Scrolls in their possession already… and I have been told that fate bends to the will of a Dragonborn. So I told Harkon about Serana, knowing his impetuosity and temper would lead him astray, trusting in her strength to keep her alive. I wasn’t expecting him to go off and try abducting Lia. If he’d succeeded in making her a Daughter of Coldharbour, my granddaughter and I would have cut his heart out and fed it to the grave hounds.”

She glanced in the direction of the chapel. “Ronthil and I are leaving for Bloodlet Throne. Because you have never done us wrong, I chose to make the same offer to you, but I strongly suggest even if you come not with me you leave soon. Save yourselves. Let the slothful and the foolish slake the Dawnguard’s righteous rage.”

“You’re not bringing Rargal?” Fura asked quietly.

“In our new home, there will be no thralls. There are many who would pawn their souls for immortality and Ronthil has perfected the blood potion recipe, so there is no need to guzzle one’s meal like a dog in a gutter,” Setareh answered. “I learned a spell to keep blood fresh from a vampire named Babette.”

“The Demon Child of Wayrest?” Hestla noted. “Will she join us?”

“Perhaps. She belongs to Sithis, a greater darkness than Molag Bal ever hopes to achieve.” Setareh spread her hands eloquently. “What say you? Harkon would sacrifice all of us to destroy the world. Let him and those too foolish to see the signs of what is to come die.”

“No politics,” Garan said firmly.

“Politics happens when two people are in the same room,” Ronthil drawled. “But not the kind of games that Orthjolf and Vingalmo played.”

Feran shrugged. “Why not? Falkreath is more conducive to acquiring ingredients anyway.”

Fura and Hestla exchanged glances and nodded together.

Setareh smiled. “Then let me fetch a few things while you pack quietly. Let Harkon awaken to empty halls.”

It was a surprisingly simple decision to leave Castle Volkihar behind. Setareh and Ronthil had already procured a boat and three Redguard sailors to ferry them and their goods across the shore to Icewater Jetty. “Thank you, my son,” she said warmly to the oldest of the three, a handsome man with his hair in fine grey plaits. “Is the wagon in place?”

“Of course,” said the Redguard in a low, sensuous voice. “We were already in Haafingar when your message reached us.”

“The Legion will be too occupied to bother you and everyone else is preparing for Lia’s Moot,” added a lithe young man who reeked of dark power. “The Empire itself is going to be in a state of chaos for some time after this day’s work.”

“Did you kill Harkon?” asked the third Redguard as the boat began to pull away.

“No. I didn’t want to ruin Isran and Irkand’s fun,” Setareh said wryly.

“ _I_ would,” muttered her son.

“You are a child of Satakal and you swallow the worldskins of those who would smother new worlds with them,” she chided fondly. “Irkand, though he will never know it, was born to Tu’whacca – he guides souls to their proper rest in the Far Shores. You are both dealers of death. You should have worked in unison. It’s your father’s fault you don’t.”

“Fuck him,” her son said succinctly. “No, wait, that’s Isran’s job.”

Garan shared a bemused glance with Feran. They’d left their families behind so long ago that they barely thought about them.

The assassins beached the boat in the forested foothills of the Reach as predawn stained the sky steel-grey. “Just remember, we’re a Black Sacrament away,” Setareh’s son said with a laugh. “Wagon’s in the hills guarded by Forsworn. Please don’t eat them. Explaining it to Lia’s other grandma would be awkward.”

“I must meet this Catriona,” Setareh murmured.

“A Hagraven and a vampire meet at a Jarl’s court,” the third Redguard said amusedly. “Sounds like the beginning of a joke.”

As they ventured deeper into the trees, Garan looked over his shoulder. Castle Volkihar was already aflame, if only from sunrise. Harkon, when or if he awoke, would receive an unpleasant surprise. Such was the price of failure.


	26. Interesting Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of genocide, religious conflict and war crimes. Season Unending, Lia style!

Whiterun was the trading hub of Skyrim and it showed in the prosperity of its people, the magnificence of its streets and the gold of its banners. Lia, accompanied by Mjoll and Iona, walked through the winding streets to Jorrvaskr and marvelled at the sights around her. Of all the Holds in Skyrim, Whiterun had gone unravaged by war thanks to Balgruuf’s canny diplomacy, and it showed.

“Riften will be like this one day,” Mjoll said. Since Harkon’s attack a few days ago, the Lioness had stuck close to Lia instead of going to her property at Treva’s Watch, and she found she was grateful for the company. They disagreed on a few things, including the presence of the Thieves’ Guild, but they had much more in common.

“I hope so,” Lia answered.

Jorrvaskr was an upturned longship built into a meadhall, exceeded only by Balgruuf’s own palace of Dragonsreach in magnificence. A lean, darkly handsome Nord in black-enamelled plate stood at the foot of the stairs, a drawn blue-silver greatsword resting point-down in his hands. “I’m guessing you’re Jarl Lia,” he said in a rich baritone. “My name is Vilkas and I will escort you into the hall.”

“Thank you for allowing me to hold the truce talks here,” Lia told him as she inclined her head.

“The Companions are the heirs of Ysgramor and the arbiters of honour in Skyrim. Unless you felt like climbing the seven thousand steps to High Hrothgar, Jorrvaskr would have been the only neutral place to hold them.” Vilkas turned and led them up into the hall.

Inside, ancient banners and weapons hung from the walls, and chairs were arranged around a firepit in the centre. Serana was already present, accompanied by an auburn-haired Nord in threadbare robes and a short, rounded Altmer with coarse blonde hair. Lia raised her hand to the Dragonborn, who nodded back but continued speaking to the Altmer.

“So, you’re Lia.” The owner of the drawling baritone was rangy and platinum-blond, his indigo silk robes trimmed with white snow-fox fur and fastened with jewel-encrusted golden chains, a ruby-set golden torc around his neck. “I was expecting someone taller.”

“Balgruuf,” Lia noted with a nod. “I was expecting someone decked out in more jewels than the Emperor.”

The Jarl of Whiterun grinned. “I didn’t want to make the other Jarls feel like churls, so I toned it down a bit.”

Lia touched her diamond-and-gold torc. After some consideration, she’d chosen to wear one of Laila’s old gowns, a linen gown of faded purple with a fox fur mantle cut down to her size so that it didn’t look so hand-me-down. It was still a few shades finer than what she wore every day.

“Madanach told me that friends of the Reach could wear a ruby torc but only royalty of the Reach could wear diamonds,” Balgruuf continued, nodding to a short, whip-wiry Breton with the elaborate tattoos of a Reachman noble and traditional Forsworn armour made from snowy bear and sabre cat skins. His torc was diamond and gold, ten-stranded and sheened with enchantment – the torc of the Ard Ri of the Druadachs.

“My granma comes from a noble clan,” Lia answered calmly. “I didn’t _plan_ on becoming Jarl…”

“I was meant to be the Steward, but the damned Thalmor killed my brother and father at Lake Rumare,” Balgruuf told her. “Speaking of which, Ambassador Elenwen has arrived to make sure we don’t do anything against the White-Gold Concordat.”

“Of course she has,” Lia said wearily. “Kyne forbid the Dominion not stick its nose into other people’s business.”

“As the Empire is a signatory of the White-Gold Concordat, the Dominion has every right to be here,” said a silky, haughty voice from behind them. “I’m disappointed that the Companions won’t allow me to arrest all the Talos worshippers here.”

“You know that Jorrvaskr is considered neutral territory, right?” Lia asked the tall, lean womer with dramatic black makeup. “Arresting anyone here would be like marching into a temple and dragging off the parishioners. It goes against the laws of Skyrim.”

“We could remove this infection once and for all,” Elenwen retorted.

“If we remove the protections for the Stormcloaks, the same wouldn’t apply to you,” Balgruuf drawled. “Given the amount of folks who hate you here, Elenwen, do you really want that precedent to be set?”

“The esteemed Ambassador’s husband oversaw the massacre of two hundred worshippers in the Great Chapel of Bruma and she ordered the crucifixion of civilians at Cloud Ruler Temple,” Lia said grimly.

“The acts of an unfortunate war,” Elenwen said mildly. “But Imperial law-“

“The laws of diplomatic immunity applies here,” Lia interrupted flatly. “It either applies to everyone, or I ask the Companions to look the other way while the Stormcloaks butcher you for your crimes. I don’t think the Imperial representatives will rush to save you.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Elenwen hissed, her face turning pasty-yellow.

“Don’t push me. We have a dragon trying to eat the world, vampires plotting to blind the sun, and I heard a rumour in the streets that someone tried to assassinate the Emperor. The life of one rather unpleasant womer who seems to think diplomatic immunity applies only to her is small potatoes in the scheme of things.”

“The Dominion will remember this,” Elenwen said, wrapping herself in a cloak of tattered hauteur.

“Good. I hope they remember the last time they tried to conquer humanity.” Lia’s smile was grim. “Because we won’t certainly forget… despite the hopes of some.”

The Ambassador sniffed and stalked away.

“You’ve made an enemy there,” Balgruuf observed.

“Elenwen has always been an enemy. She was sent here because she’s the one who broke Ulfric during the Great War.”

“By the Nine,” Balgruuf breathed.

The Imperial delegation arrived shortly after, led by Tullius and a delicate red-haired young woman with obvious Reacher ancestry. Lia noticed that half the party wore circlets of gold or copper and robes finer than most.

“The Imperial Jarls have arrived,” Balgruuf noted. “I suppose they decided this was a Moot.”

“That was not the plan. A truce was the plan,” Lia said in shock.

“That’ll still happen. Neither side are idiots.” Balgruuf grinned. “But the next few days promise to be interesting.”

“Interesting. Yeah,” Lia said weakly. “Haven’t you ever heard the curse ‘may you live in interesting times’?”


	27. Crown and Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, war crimes, torture, imprisonment, religious conflict, attempted kidnapping and child abuse.

“What is he doing here?” Ulfric demanded as Madanach took a seat across from him.

“These are truce talks. Did you think that the Empire and the Stormcloaks were the only factions that mattered in Skyrim?” Lia, short and rounded for a Nord but with the whip-crack temper of the Lost Valley women, retorted sharply. “You can’t argue for the right of free worship and rule without respecting the Reachfolk’s desire for it, Ulfric. That would be hypocritical, to say the least.”

The Ard Ri leaned back with an open smirk as Ulfric’s face went an unhealthy puce.

“I can’t imagine why the Stormcloaks’ hypocrisy surprises you, Jarl Lia,” Tullius observed. “Ulfric has always been for the Nords and the Nords alone.”

“An attitude brought out by the Empire treating Skyrim like a gods-be-damned larder and recruitment post, not to mention the various atrocities you’ve committed,” Lia countered, turning on the General. “The carnificina? The fucking _carnificina_? You know that’s a tactic of last resort that has to be approved of by the Elder Council! Not once, even, but _five times_! Don’t you dare claim the law is sacred when you’ve shat all over it!”

“Helgen was the once!” Tullius snapped in response.

“Oh, so Karthspire, Sundered Towers, Bruca’s Leap and Rebel’s Cairn don’t count? Executing the nearest Reacher settlement just in case they _might_ be guilty of raiding Legion supply lines?” Lia’s tone dripped acid. “Any moral superiority the Empire held after the Markarth Incident has well and truly gone down the shitter, General.”

Madanach’s smirk became a grin. Oh, the Mist-Queen was giving them what-for.

“I wouldn’t smile too much if I were you, Madanach,” rumbled Kodlak the Harbinger. “Weren’t you sending young desperate Forsworn to die a month or so ago at the behest of Thonar Silver-Blood?”

“It served my purpose to convince that bastard I was well and truly tamed,” Madanach answered flatly, though his amusement had quite fled. “Those deaths achieved their purpose, Harbinger. I am free and there’s a Jarl of Reacher blood on the Mournful Throne.”

Lia gave him a frankly disappointed gaze. “I’m disappointed in you, Ard Ri,” she said quietly. “The One is chosen from the Nine for excellence in body, heart, mind, soul and character. You were that man once. But now…?”

“Ulfric broke me as Elenwen broke him,” Madanach admitted with a sigh. “If you or young Argis the Bulwark feel you need to challenge me for the title of Ard Ri, it’s your right. Any of the Nine may challenge the One if they think it is better for our people.”

“Atrocity begets atrocity. Cruelty begets cruelty. Talos wreaked havoc on the Altmer, which gave birth to the Thalmor, who did their best to destroy the god who had wronged them and committed untold war crimes in Cyrodiil before and after the Great War, which gave rise to the Stormcloaks that shattered the Reachfolk rebellion with the cruelty they learned from the Dominion, which only drove the Forsworn to greater heights of desperation,” Kodlak said grimly. “Man and mer back to the dawn times, maybe before that when Auriel disagreed with Shor about the making of the world.”

“We are justified in our actions,” Elenwen, the Thalmor Ambassador, said calmly. “That is the cycle we seek to end.”

“And yet in the face of annihilation at the teeth of Alduin World-Eater, the gods spun out a Dragonborn to oppose him,” Kodlak countered mildly. “Don’t you think it’s a little arrogant to gainsay the will of the Aedra?”

“We’re getting side-tracked here,” Lia said, rubbing her eyes wearily. “Every Nord who dies in battle feeds the World-Eater. We’ve got Harkon the Cruel on the Sea of Ghosts trying to blot out the sun. Only the gods know what odd things are going on in Solstheim. What will it take for all you _fucking idiots_ to make peace for six months or so?”

Balgruuf gave a short sharp laugh. “You’re making no friends here, Jarl Lia, though I agree with you.”

“If you and Balgruuf stood with us, we’d take the Imperial Holds within weeks,” Ulfric rumbled.

“And then what? Ulfric, I’m sure you have a thousand battle-plans drawn up for you by the Stormsword, but I wager you don’t have a damned clue about rebuilding the province after all those Imperial services you deride have left.” Lia rested her chin upon her hand. “I have a duty to the Rift to make it as prosperous and safe as I must. If Windhelm’s any example, I wouldn’t trust you with a pot plant, let alone a Hold.”

The pretty redhead Elisif laughed. “From one Reacher to another, well said!”

“Have you slain an ice wraith yet?” Lia asked the Jarl of Solitude directly. “In the Old Holds and even many of the Imperial Holds, you aren’t considered an adult until you do, and technically shouldn’t be speaking at a Moot if you haven’t.”

“I took her out to do so a few days ago,” Rikke told Lia. “Maybe if I hadn’t…”

Tullius sighed. “I’m sure the news I’m about to impart will gladden Elenwen and Ulfric’s hearts: three days ago, Emperor Titus Mede II was murdered on his personal ship by the Dark Brotherhood.”

“Talos titty-fucking Dibella,” Lia breathed.

Ulfric was grinning broadly. “Ha! No doubt one of his many enemies paid for it.”

Madanach glanced sideways at Elenwen, seeing her smug expression, and decided to toss a fireball among the oil lamps.

“My sources tell me that it was Armand Motierre, an Elder Councilman, who paid for the deed,” he said silkily into the soft whispers of the Moot. “He pawned his Elder Council amulet for the down payment.”

“Motierre the ‘I only stop kissing Nurancar’s arse to catch a breath’ cousin of the Emperor?” Lia demanded, her eyes narrowing.

Balgruuf leaned back, his expression grim. “He’s staying at the Bannered Mare. Do you want him arrested?”

“I thought you were neutral?” some auburn-haired lout in threadbare robes demanded of him.

“He’s arranged an assassination in my Hold. That’s very disrespectful of him,” Balgruuf answered.

“Why, because he didn’t give you a cut?”

“Do it,” Lia told Balgruuf. “Armand’s bad news and always has been.”

“Mother’s breath,” Kodlak sighed. “We’ve become diverted from our original purpose-“

“No, we haven’t,” Rikke interrupted, rising to her feet, what looked like a leather-wrapped sword in her hands. “It took me a little while to recognise you, Aurelia Callaina. Very clever to make yourself less striking than you were before.”

Lia inhaled deeply and rose to her feet. “And what will you do about it, Rikke? If you tell me it’s treason to change my name and face to escape the sins of my parents, I might as well throw my lot in with the Forsworn.”

“We’d be glad to have you, lass,” Madanach assured her.

“If you lay a hand on my Jarl, you answer to me.” The Dragonborn, a pale beautiful young woman with the dark hair of a Hjaalmarcher, stood up too. “Lia – and Balgruuf – and Korir – are the only Jarls who care more for the threats posed by Harkon and Alduin than the rest of you.”

“No.” Rikke unwrapped the sword to reveal an aged-ivory sheath and long hilt wrapped in snow-white scales. Writing Madanach recognised from Karthspire engraved its length, though he didn’t know what it meant. “There’s only one woman with the blood and will to unite all the factions of Skyrim. Reach royalty. Daughter of Sigdrifa Stormsword and stepdaughter of Ulfric Stormcloak. _The last descendant of Martin Septim and Aurelia Northstar._ ”

Serana relaxed with a smile. “Finally, someone with some common sense around here. I’d planned to give this to you beforehand but I got distracted by Urag’s message on where to find the Dragon Scroll.”

The Dragonborn pulled out what was perhaps the ugliest damned crown in the history of ugly damned crowns in Nirn. Ulfric swore furiously in Dragonish and Rikke grinned as everyone else looked at least mildly confused.

Lia was pale as milk. “You’ve got to be fucking joking me-“

“I’m not. Draw the damned Sword of the Septims, put the damned Jagged Crown on, and end this damned civil war,” Rikke interrupted crisply. “The other option is Potema Septim, and I’d rather not be ruled by an undead maniac.”

It was so amazing, so completely and utterly ridiculous, that Madanach had to burst out laughing. Balgruuf and Kodlak, a moment later, joined him.

“What gave me away?” Lia asked the Legate Primus in a weak voice.

“Your curse. It was one of your father’s favourites and I remember you saying it when Stalks-His-Foes set your tent on fire in Blackmarsh,” Rikke said quietly. “I believe your foremother was more fond of ‘Talos ass-fucking Mara’.”

Ulfric exchanged glances with his hairy bear of a lover Galmar. “This is… awkward.”

“Awkward? It’s illegal!” snapped Elenwen. “Under the terms of the White-Gold Concordat, the Dominion will have a one-third vote in deciding who will sit on the Ruby Throne if it should pass from the Medes-“

“Despite your best efforts, there’s still a Mede alive,” Balgruuf drawled. “Akaviria has been guesting in Whiterun for the past couple years. Rikke is offering the High Monarch’s throne to Lia.”

“Fuck me running,” Lia breathed. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you people?”

“I vote for Lia as Jarl of Morthal and Bone-Queen,” announced Idgrod Ravencrone as she stood stiffly.

Madanach nodded to Argis, hitherto silent, and the big man rose. “I, the Sunrise-King, will support the Mist-Queen for High Queen of Skyrim… and of the Reach when Madanach passes.”

“Serana spoke well of you and she rid us of that wretched Ancano,” the auburn-haired Nord said, standing up. “Korir of Winterhold stands for Lia as High Queen. Put the damned crown on, woman, I’m hungry.”

“I was informed a dragon killed Ancano!” Elenwen said harshly. “A… a… two-legged Nord Gafukyasalf, the letter said.”

“He didn’t! Auriel’s golden balls, Bjarni actually did it!” laughed a short, coarse-blonde Altmer.

Balgruuf shrugged. “If it can’t be me, might as well be you. Whiterun stands for Lia.”

“Draw the damned sword, woman, so we know you for a Septim,” Ulfric demanded.

Reluctantly, Lia took the Sword from Rikke’s hands and drew it, baring a polished ivory-brown blade with about a third of its length snapped off. “I don’t…”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tullius said. “Elisif…?”

Elisif closed her eyes. Madanach recalled that she’d hoped to inherit her husband’s crown. “Solitude stands for Lia… and the Sunset-Queen for the Mist-Queen.”

_That’s… hmm… five Jarls. Balgruuf, Elisif, Argis, Korir and Idgrod._

“It goes without saying that as Riften’s Jarl, your vote makes the sixth,” Korir said.

“I can’t vote for you as High Queen when I hold the right to it by right of duel,” Ulfric said heavily.

“You most certainly do not!” snapped Kodlak. “You cut down a boy holding a bread knife! The letter may have been observed but the spirit was most certainly not.”

“The Pale stands with Ulfric!” announced the oldest fart in the room.

“I didn’t say that I would contend for the crown,” Ulfric continued heavily. “You have your peace, Aurelia Septima. Once your brothers get over the shock of it, they’ll support you as Jarls of Falkreath and Windhelm.”

“Ard-Ban-Ri of the Nords,” Madanach said gently to the ashen-faced Lia. “The High Matriarch herself foretold that if anything of our folk was to survive, it would be through the Mist-Queen. When I was the Stag-King of Lost Valley, I chose to take the sword of Faolan the Red Eagle because I knew it would unite our clans into a greater whole. I am still Stag-King. Sunset, Sunrise, Bone and now Stag stand for you. When I die, you will become Ard-Ban-Ri of the Reach as well. If not for yourself, do it for the kin who stood by you when Empire and Stormcloak turned against you.”

It was a low blow to use kin-ties like that but Madanach knew if Lia refused, the Legion and Stormcloak alike would destroy her as a threat and in her passing any hope for the Reachfolk would diminish like mist under sun. He’d have preferred a free Reach, but he’d settle for a ruler who was of their blood, partly of their teaching, and well inclined to them.

Lia crowned herself, slowly and reluctantly, her expression that of a woman forced to pluck stones from a cauldron of boiling water. Serana was the first to kneel, then Argis, and soon almost everyone was doing so but for Elenwen, Tullius, Ulfric, Galmar, Madanach and the Companions.

“Kyne have mercy on us all,” she finally said.


	28. Kindred Judgment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. Harkon’s week really sucks, doesn’t it? I love the line ‘cancel the apocalypse’. Sue me.

“High Queen of Skyrim. With a Hagraven adviser. It’s probably a good thing Carcette isn’t around to see it, because the shock of the situation might just carry her off anyway.”

Lia gave Isran a jaundiced glance. Short, a bit plump, clad in plain mage robes; not the stuff of which legends were made. Irkand had said she’d originally been named Callaina for her beautiful blue-green eyes. The face-sculptor had been subtle, turning her eyes brown and removing that Aurelii raptor’s beak of a nose and smoothing the square jaw and high cheekbones, but it had only made her resemble Irkand the more.

“We have vampires to kill,” she said tersely. “The mages are nearly done building the ice floes to carry the troops across.”

She returned to Mjoll the Lioness’ side, who gave her a warmer smile than one might expect a Thane to grant her Jarl. Isran turned to Irkand and the other members of the Dawnguard.

“I won’t bore you with speeches,” he said to the clustered group of twenty or so. “Instead I will say this: today we are cancelling the apocalypse!”

Above them, a raven shrieked warning: even Hagravens had their standards and Catriona knew a few stories about Harkon that made even Irkand blanch.

“Gargoyles!” bellowed Argis the Bulwark, the Reach’s new Jarl. Igmund apparently had a tragic accident when he tried to jump off the waterfall that fell from the Temple of Dibella. If it was an accident, then Isran moonlighted as a vampire. He wouldn’t give Madanach the satisfaction of knowing that he knew about the assassination.

Three gargoyles, able to act even in the daylight, had taken off and were flying clumsily across the strait to where the force gathered at Icewater Jetty. Hard to kill and literally made of stone, they could wreak a lot of…

One of the mages gestured, the green light of Alteration enveloping one so that it crumbled into dust. Another was knocked from the sky by a flung boulder, breaking on the rock below, and the last was on fire by the time it reached the shore but was shattered by a blond Stormcloak’s enchanted warhammer.

“Don’t get cocky,” Isran said tightly as someone cheered. “That’s just the first wave. Our intelligence reports have at least twenty vampires there.”

“Floes are ready!” called Onmund, one of the mages from the College.

“Four abreast, slow march!” Tullius, who’d done much of the tactical preparation for the assault on Castle Volkihar, ordered sharply. “Archers and battlemages, stand ready!”

By the time they reached the bridge that led to the castle, three vampires had emerged to confront them. “Molag’s balls!” one of them yelped. “There’s hundreds of them!”

“To Oblivion with this, I’m out of here!” announced the sole female vampire, transforming into a Vampire Lord.

Isran cupped his hands, gathered his magicka into a sun-bright ball, and threw it at her as she took off. With a shriek, she plummeted to the water, and someone transfixed her with an icy spear to make sure.

The biggest of the three raised his hands. “Look, if we give you Harkon, will you go? We’ll even leave Skyrim.”

“You should have left with Setareh,” Lia said in an ice-cold tone. “I am Lia, High Queen of Skyrim, and by the authority invested in me by the Moot I pass the sentence of death on all those therein, but most importantly Harkon.”

The vampire swore, cast Invisibility, and ran to dive off the bridge into the water. Bows sang and arrows pierced him, leaving him half-hanging over the bridge’s edge, screaming in pain as the sun burned him. The other turned for the door as the grave hound attacked, only to be struck in the back by arrows and firebolts before he made it.

The dead vampires were made sure of, then Serana took a deep breath and blasted the doors open with the Thu’um. “My father will be in the chapel to Molag Bal,” she said in a deliberately emotionless voice. “Knowing most of my father’s court, they’d have fled with Setareh.”

“So we’ll need to do this again in a few years?” Tullius asked testily as they entered.

Serana shook her head. “No. Setareh thought the prophecy was an idiot idea to begin with. She’ll retreat to somewhere isolated, keep the clan to itself and the atrocities to a minimum. I suspect there’ll be a sharp drop in bandits and renegade mages wherever she settles.”

The castle was a wreck, furniture destroyed and debris everywhere, and the bodies of several skinny people in rags lay scattered around like broken toys. “Cut their throats and burn them,” Lia ordered with a hint of compassion. “We don’t need anyone rising.”

Irkand did the deed; he was very good at putting people out of their misery. Isran used Sun’s Fire to destroy the bodies and send their souls to Aetherius.

Harkon was, as Serana said, in the chapel. “It appears I have you to thank for turning my daughter against me,” the Vampire Lord, with shiny burn scars on half its face and both wrists, said bitterly. “I knew it was only a matter of time before she'd return with hatred in her heart.”

“What you did to me was wrong,” Serana said grimly. “I chose to cure myself because I didn’t want to suffer madness and torment. I’m the Dragonborn – like Talos, like Martin Septim and like Miraak – and you… you are not my father. Bormahu, our Father Akatosh, is.”

“Harkon, I declare you nithing.” Lia’s voice was strong and hard. “Kyne will not breathe you in and Shor will not receive you in Sovngarde. All hearths are cold to you and all hands are turned against you. You have no clan, no rank, no wergild. All may slay you without penalty.”

She stepped past Mjoll, clad in her torc and the Jagged Crown, fire cupped in her hands. “As High Queen of Skyrim, in the names of Kyne and Shor and Atmora-of-old, you are no longer of the children of the sky. Let none name you Nord, Atmoran or whatever iteration of Kyne and Shor’s children should exist in the future. As I will it, so mote it be.”

Harkon snarled. “You don’t have the right!”

“According to the Moot, I do,” Lia retorted serenely. “I’d make my peace with Molag Bal if I were you, because you’re about to meet him in Coldharbour.”

Harkon opened his wings… and was engulfed in flames from Serana’s fire-breathing Shout, was struck by at least three arrows, and had two ebony Akaviri shortswords driven into his back because Irkand had used the time given by Lia’s speech to sneak around. A few gargoyles stirred and attacked, but Isran took great pleasure in smashing them to pieces with his warhammer. Stendarr never forbade His worshippers from enjoying simple pleasures.

It still took Harkon a while to die and he managed to wound Irkand, who simply downed a cure disease potion and let Onmund heal his wounds. But it reminded Isran that he and his fellow Redguard weren’t young anymore.

He brought down his warhammer on Harkon’s head until it was pulp. You know, to make sure.

When Serana burst into tears and fled the chapel, Lia, Mjoll and the short Altmer from the College followed her. Isran let them handle it, instead ordering searchers to explore the entire castle, to make sure there were no more vampires lurking in the place.

It was done… but it didn’t feel done. Because he knew most of Clan Volkihar had escaped.


	29. Sunset and New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, child sexual abuse and child abuse. Two more chapters to go!

Serana was in a garden which once might have been beautiful but was now a ruined tangle of weeds and salted earth. “This was my mother's garden. It... do you know how beautiful something can be when it's tended by a master for hundreds of years?”

“My mother had a garden once,” Faralda said in her sweet alto. “It was swallowed by the Great Collapse… and her with it.”

Lia paused by a sundial, except instead of the sun it showed the phases of the moon. “Would you like me and Mjoll to leave?”

The former vampire shook her head, wiping away her tears. “No. You were my first friend. I mean, I know there was some ulterior motive in naming me Thane of the Rift, but… You declared my father nithing, so it didn’t count as kinslaughter. He’d already damned himself to Coldharbour, so it didn’t matter. But you took that step for me.”

“I’m sorry, Serana,” Lia said softly. “Was he ever a good father?”

“No. Mother and I were close once. Best friends and all. Except, looking back, I was more of a protégé than a daughter. Maybe, in my way, I was as much a tool to her as I was to my father.” Serana sighed. “Do you mind if I not come back to the Rift for a while? I want to stay at the College and… well…”

“I don’t mind at all,” Lia assured her. “Did you wish to be freed from the Thane’s oath, so you can take service in Winterhold? Korir could use the boost in prestige.”

“No. I’m the High Queen’s Thane still. There’s going to be those who take exception to a Septim wearing the Jagged Crown. Elenwen’s face promised plenty of trouble.” Serana plucked a deathbell from a nearby bush and began to shred its purple petals. “We might move the College here. Korir’s gotten over himself a fair bit but honestly, the College is too isolated where it is. I don’t want to see the castle go to wrack and ruin, know what I mean?”

“I’ll put my seal to the deed,” Lia promised. “The College of Winterhold will have the same freehold status as Jorrvaskr.”

“The Crown suits you. Of course, that’s probably why Bormahu sent you to Skyrim.” Serana cast aside the shredded petals. “I still have Alduin to contend with and I think I’ll find Auriel’s Bow to make sure no other vampires get the bright idea of trying to destroy the sun.”

“I’ll give orders for every Jarl to assist you,” Lia said immediately. “Harkon is small potatoes compared to the World-Eater.”

“That, I think, hurt him the most as he died,” Serana said softly. “That he wasn’t as powerful or frightening as he thought.”

“That works for me,” Lia observed. “My door’s always open to you, Serana.”

“And mine to you.” She smiled. “Good luck with you and Mjoll.”

“Same with you and Faralda.”

…

Lia and Mjoll left them alone in the garden and Serana allowed herself a sigh of relief. The High Queen was tactful enough not to rejoice openly about Harkon’s death around his daughter but having to swallow the grief was harder than she thought. She mourned the parents she never had, the ones she should have had. It was okay to do that, right?

“We can do a lot here,” Faralda said thoughtfully as she examined the garden. “It’ll be the Aedra’s own task to clean up the castle unless… Hmm, would you mind if we just cremated everybody? The Dawnguard would be useful in that regards.”

“I have no problem with it,” Serana answered, looking to the sunset-red sky above. “It’s over… I mean, Harkon’s over. Everything… I never even got to say goodbye to my mother.”

“I’m sorry,” Faralda told her gently. “There’s no shame in grieving what you never had.”

Serana nodded, wiping away the tears that stung her eyes. “I know. I have… freedom. Myself. Sure, there’s Alduin, but…”

“You answer to no god but Akatosh and no mortal but the High Queen of Skyrim,” the Altmer said softly. “That is powerful… and dangerous.”

She held out her hand. “Come. I want to see what else can be salvaged from this place.”

Serana took her hand and they went inside her mother’s study. A new beginning at day’s end. It was more than she ever expected.

…

“They will be at you to marry some man, to continue the Septim lineage,” Mjoll observed as they stood on the shores of Haafingar, looking across the strait at Castle Volkihar. Her hair was ruddy with sunset, her gaze distant.

“They can wish all they want,” Lia said decisively. “Aedric and Daedric blood mixes poorly. Why do you think Serana got herself cured? It wasn’t because Molag Bal could claim the soul of a dragon…”

“You’re not mad.” Mjoll’s voice was firm.

“Oh, I’m definitely cracked,” Lia said wryly. “I could have settled down in some nice little cottage and kept to myself. But no, I came to Riften and got involved and here we are now.”

“You got involved because while your ways can be tricky, you’re a basically decent person,” Mjoll countered. “I wish you’d drive the Guild from Riften though…”

“No. I’ve lived in places where the Guild held no sway and it was anarchy on the streets. In Bruma, it was the Guild that fed the poor and smuggled out the children of Talos worshippers and made sure that crime was kept to a minimum,” Lia replied. “I get the impression that Skyrim’s Guild was an aberration due to Mercer Frey’s behaviour. He’s dead now and Bryn runs the show… and I’ve got Bryn by the short and curlies. He’ll keep his people in line.”

She followed Mjoll’s gaze to Castle Volkihar. “I’m glad my gran wasn’t here today. It would have been beyond awkward to face her as High Queen. But if Setareh hadn’t been turned by Balgeir, none of us would be here now. She made this victory easy.”

“Isran doesn’t think it’s a victory. And I’m not sure if he’s wrong.” Mjoll sighed. “But you are my Jarl… and my High Queen. I will stay with you for as long as I am permitted.”

Lia smiled. “I’m glad. I’ve released Iona from her oath as huscarl and sent her to Falkreath. Someone murdered Siddgeir and his huscarl, if you can believe it. That puts Egil in charge because the Holdmoot selected Bjarni as Jarl of Windhelm.”

“Isn’t Bjarni a feckless roustabout who hangs out with sailors and barmaids?”

“Sure. He’s also the best mage-general outside of the Empire and the Dominion. Elenwen doesn’t mean well and once it’s known a Septim lives, all kinds of shit’s going to rise to the surface.”

“But we will meet them together,” Mjoll said quietly, taking her hand and kissing it in the ancient gesture of fealty.

“Yes, we will.”


	30. Epilogue: A Long Loving Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, child sexual abuse, child abuse, genocide, rape/non-con, torture and imprisonment. Final chapter. Thanks for sticking with me through it!

“The College of Winterhold’s moving into Castle Volkihar,” reported Feran, his fingers curled around a cup of warm blood. Their new home didn’t have the amenities of Castle Volkihar, but it made up for them in isolation and defensive position, and the craftsfolk hired by the Guild contacts were already hard at work repairing and maintaining Bloodlet Throne. Rustem recommended them from their building of Heljarchen Hall and Lakeview Manor, the two homes held by the Dark Brotherhood with Speakers serving as Thanes. Delvin Mallory was discreet as the dead. Setareh was already giving some thought to offering him a place in her court.

“It is good to know it won’t go to waste,” she finally said after sipping from her own cup. In Bloodlet Throne, they observed the civilities; no gnawing at veins like ferals trying to evade dawn. Harkon, for all his might, had never gone beyond the brutal warlord who threw cracked bones to the hounds in a filthy gloom-ridden hall. “I trust the problems in the Pale and Windhelm have been dealt with?”

“Yes. Rustem had already taken care of Siddgeir – I believe it was a personal matter,” Feran confirmed. “Egil’s harsh but if we are careful, we should be able to evade him. I’m already scouting other locations just in case.”

“Good. I will never allow myself to grow fat and lazy as Harkon did.” Serana smiled at Ronthil. “How goes the gardens?”

“Wonderfully. Making a greenhouse was an inspired decision, if I may say so myself,” he replied, returning the smile. “I’ve been trading ingredients and notes with the Brotherhood’s Babette. Lovely girl. She preys on child molesters for the most part.”

“Doing the gods’ work,” Setareh observed with a smile. “We are monsters but there are worse things out in the dark. Let us prey upon them instead of some random farmer.”

“So what, are we friendly neighbourhood vampires?” Feran asked dryly.

“Don’t be silly. The wise shepherd takes care of their flock, curing their ills, driving away the predators, leading them to green pastures and making their lives good.” Setareh drank neatly, licking her lips. “Harkon was the shepherd who killed the sheep and wondered why he couldn’t shear them again. He was a fool, he is dead, and my only great regret was that I didn’t dispatch him to Coldharbour myself.”

Feran nodded slowly. “That’s a practical way of looking at it. The wise hunter never overhunts their prey, but takes wisely, just enough to cull the sickly and the weak.”

“Precisely.”

When he’d finished his drink and left, Setareh rose to her feet with a long easy slow stretch. Bloodlet Throne was far less palatial than Castle Volkihar but when the renovations were done, it would be cosier. It was easier to create luxury and comfort in a smaller space, for the importance of size to someone was usually commensurate to their need to proclaim their ego. She had nothing to prove, so a great and glorious castle wasn’t necessary.

“I should look into making some Argonian bloodwine,” Ronthil mused as he followed her out onto the balcony overlooking the Jeralls. The rainbow bands of light that the Nords called Kyne’s Veil rippled from horizon to horizon like watered silk over diamond-studded velvet. “We really need a proper wine cellar too.”

“You never did tell me of your life before,” Setareh said, glancing at the mer. They’d become lovers shortly after coming to Bloodlet Throne, the first such choice she’d ever made in her life. Arius had been selected for her, the union sweetened by the possibility of becoming Empress. Balgeir… well, Setareh was pragmatic enough to do what she must to survive. But it was good to hack his head off with a sword in the end. Sweet, loyal, cunning Ronthil was to her tastes. Very much to her tastes.

“I was steward to Ancano, then I became his quartermaster in the Great War,” Ronthil answered. “The Altmer… they took intelligent Bosmer children from Valenwood and made us servants. It served them twofold – deprived the Silvenar of capable subordinates and gave them useful minions.”

“I think we will need to do something about the Thalmor,” Setareh mused. “Rustem has told me some horror stories.”

“Will you be turning your children and grandchildren?” Ronthil asked carefully.

“Rustem and Cirroc may accept such a gift. Or they may not. Sithis is the end of all things, so that new things may grow. Lia would refuse. But I would never force it upon them.” Setareh smiled. “But I will still offer my help and advice. That is what grandmothers do.”

“So,” he asked with a smile. “How does it feel to be queen of Bloodlet Throne?”

Setareh’s smile broadened. “I was ever born to be a queen. Be it of Cyrodiil or the damned, I care not. I am content.”

They watched the rainbow shimmer of Kyne’s Veil for a long moment before returning inside. Dawn was coming and the end of another night. Another long, peaceful, loving night.


End file.
